CHAPTER I

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations

in hyphenation and accents remain.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.

THE FLAME-GATHERERS

[Illustration: Publisher’s Monogram]

THE FLAME-GATHERERS

BY

MARGARET HORTON POTTER

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.

1904

_All rights reserved_

COPYRIGHT, 1904,

BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1904.

Reprinted September, 1904.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

TO

Gerhardt Hauptmann

WITH THE PROFOUND ADMIRATION

OF THE AUTHOR

PRELUDE

“UP FROM EARTH’S CENTRE THROUGH THE SEVENTH GATE

I ROSE, AND ON THE THRONE OF SATURN SATE;

AND MANY A KNOT UNRAVELLED BY THE ROAD,

BUT NOT THE MASTER KNOT OF HUMAN FATE.”[1]

GREAT OMAR, THIS VAGUE TALE RETOLD CONTAINS

PART ANSWER TO THE RIDDLE. ALLAH DEIGNS

A LITTLE WISDOM THROUGH THE MOST UNWISE:

THE SECRET OF THE UNIVERSE IN CHAINS.

BEHOLD IT, WRITTEN FOR THE OCCIDENT.

AH! WILL THEY SEE, ALTHOUGH THE VEIL IS RENT?

OR WILL NOT ONE BELIEVER PAUSE BEFORE

THE TATTERED GLORIES OF THE ORIENT?

M. H. P.

[1] “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,” Ed. Fitzgerald, trans.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

FLESH-FIRE

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE CONQUEROR 3

II. THE INCEPTION OF A FLAME 22

III. AHALYA 39

IV. THE ASRA RUBY 58

V. POPPIES 74

VI. CHURI 88

VII. THE POWER OF THE FLAME 109

VIII. THE CURSE 134

IX. ASRA FIGHTS AGAIN 150

X. THE SONG OF NARMÁDA 163

BOOK II

SOUL-FIRE

I. THE SON OF GOKAMA 175

II. OMAN THE CHILD 185

III. HIS SOLITUDE 196

IV. HUSHKA IN THE MARKET-PLACE 206

V. YELLOW-ROBED 227

VI. THE VIHARA OF TRUTH 240

VII. THE WHEEL OF THE LAW 254

VIII. THE OUTCAST 265

IX. THE STRUGGLE ON THE HEIGHT 283

X. THE WANDERER 299

XI. SUNRISE 315

XII. MANDU IN MALWA 323

XIII. A BROTHER OF THE SOUL 332

XIV. THE ANCIENT FLAME 353

XV. THE RIVER TEMPLE 370

XVI. “LA-ILAHA-IL-LAL-LAHA” 384

XVII. THE SIGN OF THE RUBY 399

XVIII. SUNSET 411

BOOK I

FLESH-FIRE

“Daily walked, in radiant beauty,

To and fro, the Sultan’s daughter;

In the twilight, where the fountain

Ripples o’er with crystal water.

Day by day the youthful slave stood

In the twilight, where the fountain

Ripples o’er with crystal water.

Daily he grew pale and paler.

“Once at evening came the Princess

To his side, with hurried accents:

‘Tell thy name, for I would know it;

And thy home, thy sire, and kindred.’

“And the slave replied:

‘My name is Mahomet. I come from Yemen,

And my race is the race of Asra,

Who must die if love they cherish!’”

—HEINRICH HEINE, “The Asra.”

THE FLAME-GATHERERS

CHAPTER I

THE CONQUEROR

The sun was setting over the Narmáda plain. In the midst of long

stretches of sunburnt farm land the waters of the great river rolled

and flashed with light. The barren millet-fields were illumined with

long streaks of yellow sunshine that ran to the base of Mandu, an

immense plateau, rising sheer from the lowlands to a height of some

three or four hundred feet. Between it and the nearest of the Vindhyas

is a deep chasm, a quarter of a mile or more in width, bridged over

by a miracle of man, a stone causeway, many centuries old even on the

day of September 6, in the year of the Christian Lord 1205, and of the

Hejira 601.

This causeway, a vast, stone bridge, supported on piers built up from

the rocks below, balustraded to a height of five feet, and finished on

each corner by watch-towers in which lookouts were always stationed,

made the single approach to the otherwise impregnable plateau which

formed in itself the entire principality of Mandu. Remarkable among

Indian ruins to-day are those that crown the deserted height of this

unique spot: temples, houses, and vast palaces of the most ancient

times; and at the period of which we speak, the opening years of the

thirteenth century, Mandu was in the heyday of its Indian glory,

renowned throughout the West for its wealth, its power, and the

righteousness of its rulers.

The rice harvest was just beginning, and the inhabitants of

Mandu—Brahman, Vaisya, Sudra, and Pariah alike—were busily engaged in

this toil of peace. The Kshatriyas, or warrior part of the population,

were not in the minds of their fellows to-day; for at the end of the

rains they had marched to the north on an expedition against an army of

Mohammedans by whom their neighbors of Dhár were beset.

The great causeway was deserted save for its lookouts and a fakir who

had chosen to light a harvest Ishti on the stones near the southwest

tower. As the sun neared the horizon, however, the silence was broken

by a sudden screaming of birds and monkeys in the wooded mountain gorge

beyond the bridge. Two of the guards stretched themselves and looked

out along the pass—looked, and were transfixed. Shrill trumpet-notes

and the faint beating of hoofs along a rocky road became suddenly

audible. The glint of spear-heads shone among the trees. Lastly came

the tapping of the tiny saddle-drums. Two of the soldiers shouted

together: “Avalu! They are coming!” and, leaping down to the bridge,

started at breakneck pace toward the fields, crying as they ran: “The

army! The soldiers! Lord Rajah! They are here! They have returned!”

The other two guards made no move to leave their advantageous posts.

The Brahman, also, abandoning his invocation to Agni, mounted the

nearest tower, to watch the arrival of his earthly ruler. He had

scarcely taken up his position when the vanguard of returning warriors

rode out upon the bridge, a glittering company, headed by the

stateliest of figures, at whose approach the guards all but knelt in

salute to their ruler, Rai-Khizar-Pál, Rajah of Mandu in the country

of Malwa, a brave and noble king. Slightly behind him rode two other

richly dressed men, mounted on beautiful horses, each of whom came in

for some share of the acknowledgments of the guards,—Puran, captain of

the troops, and Ragunáth, confidential adviser of the Rajah. Slowly,

for the horses were fagged with long marching, the three passed over

the bridge, followed by a lengthening train of officers and men, horse

and foot, over whose robes of crimson and white and green played the

last beams of the setting sun, sending off a dazzle of light from the

rubies that fastened a long spray of white feathers to the turban of

the Rajah.

By the time the first of the cavalcade had entered the broad road

leading straight across the plateau to the palaces at its eastern end,

throngs of field-workers and people of the town had begun to line the

edges of the route; for the news of the army’s return had spread from

one end of the plateau to the other, and men and women left their

work and, stained and disordered with toil, rushed to the road to

greet their ruler and their defenders. A well-built lot of people they

were, by far the greater number of the men invested with the cord of

the twice-born. And their king’s popularity was very evident from the

welcome they were giving him. Men of the Brahman caste lifted their

hands to him, Vaisyas fell upon their knees, and Sudras and Pariahs

prostrated themselves upon the earth till he had passed. Then all stood

gazing eagerly at the slow-moving file of troops. Jests, salutations,

and words of welcome passed between the onlookers and the returning

warriors; and the general spirit of joy was redoubled when it was found

that the campaign, short as it had been, was also a victorious one.

Evidences of victory presently became visible; for, at the end of the

lines of foot-soldiers, came a long string of captives, many on foot,

a few mounted upon mules, these last with their feet bound together by

thongs passed round the animals, their arms tied behind them with ropes

of hide, and the beasts themselves fastened together in a long chain.

Beside this mounted company, who represented captives of station, rode

a soldier armed with a triple-lashed whip, which he used with no great

degree of compassion upon the backs of his charges.

These captives were greeted by the onlookers with shouts of triumph,

but with no insults or even unfriendly remarks. The followers of the

Prophet were still rather mythical enemies to these dwellers of the

Dekhan. Mahmoud of Ghazni was a name they recognized; but Aybek, the

great slave, who had just mounted the throne of Delhi, was as unreal to

them as their own kings who had died three thousand years ago, in the

first conquest of India. These captives now among them were tangible

enough, but they presented too abject an appearance to give any idea

of their force in battle. The chagrin of captivity, the many days of

riding and walking, the intolerable suffering occasioned by their

bonds, had broken the spirit of all save one, who rode at the head of

the pitiable procession. He was young, this man, good to look on even

in his unkempt state, and his clothes, through the stains of war and

woe, showed their richness. He sat straight on his unsaddled mule, and

his head was not bent down. He seemed to notice nothing of what passed

around him, but kept his eyes fixed far ahead on the long, curving

range of blackened mountains, lighted by the glow of the sunset sky

that blazed behind them. His dignity and his unconsciousness made him

a continual object of interest to the crowd, and the slave-master was

under a running fire of questions which he was not slow to answer.

“He is a prince, a son of the enemy’s leader. He will bring a great

ransom,” he repeated again and again, proudly.

Cheers never failed to follow the explanation; and, after some twenty

minutes of this trial, the Arab’s head for the first time drooped, and

a deep sigh broke from him.

“Let not my lord grieve,” whispered the person riding next behind

him, a boy, scarcely more than fifteen years in age. “My lord will be

ransomed.”

But the Mohammedan sighed again, making no answer; and the

slave-master, overhearing the whisper, cut off the conversation with

a quick stroke of his whip on the back of the boy, who bore it, as he

bore all things for his Prince, without a sound.

By this time the road, which had hitherto run through grain-fields,

approached a building set, as was the custom with many Indian temples

and palaces, in the midst of a square pool of water. The structure was

built of white stone, in the usual massive and grotesque Indian style,

and seemed only approachable by a narrow path between two glassy sheets

of water, which reflected in their mirror-depths the clumps of wild

cotton trees, graceful bamboos, and feathery tamarinds by which they

were surrounded. The eyes of the captives, turned from this structure

only when it lay behind them, were instantly fixed upon another,

infinitely greater, which a new bend in the road disclosed a few

hundred yards beyond. The entrance to this new building was filled with

a bustling throng, for here the soldiers were dismounting. It was the

dwelling of the rulers of Mandu; and in five minutes more the captives

themselves had halted in the huge, unpaved courtyard round which the

palace was built.

The sun had now set and the brief twilight sunk into darkness. A

bonfire burned already in the centre of the courtyard, and its fitful,

wavering light accentuated the activity of the scene. The Rajah and a

few of the officials had disappeared into the palace; but it seemed as

if all the rest of the little army, together with a hundred attendants,

were crowded into the courtyard:—soldiers, slaves, eunuchs, page-boys,

villagers, and women,—women unveiled, unabashed, openly interested

in their fellow-creatures. Finally, in the portal of the north wing,

quiet, calm, betraying no sign of weariness, stood Ragunáth, the right

hand of the Rajah, that small, slender, well-favored man, with the eyes

of the lynx, an intellect keen as a steel blade, and a constitution

that was superior to time and disease. He was still clad in his crimson

riding-costume. The turban had not been lifted from his head; but he

carried in his hand a thin, ebony staff. He was engaged in directing

the dismount and disposal of the captives. Already those that had come

on foot had been led away by guards into the south wing; and now, under

his low-voiced commands, two men were lifting the riders from their

mules and, as soon as they could stand, sending them after the others.

One of these, only, made any resistance to this plan. He was the boy

who had ridden second in the line, behind his leader. Spent as he was,

this child struggled violently against separation from his master, at

whose commands only he finally consented to be led away. And now this

master remained alone, upon his mule, his face turned to Ragunáth, and

in his eyes the faintest expression of dislike.

“What is thy name, captive?” demanded the Indian, in a flat, low tone.

“Fidá Ibn-Mahmud Ibn-Hassan el-Asra,” returned the captive.

“The son of the Mohammedan leader?”

“His brother’s son.”

“Ah! then you are not a prince?”

“I am the head of our race. My father is dead.”

“Ah!—Partha, let him be taken down and brought to my apartment. Then go

tell the Lord Rajah that the work is done.” And, turning upon his heel,

the minister disappeared into the corridor behind him.

Immediately the two men beside him cut the thongs that bound Fidá’s

feet to the mule; and they also unfastened his arms. He was lifted

from the animal, and set upon his feet, at the same time supported on

either side. It was some moments before his numb and stiffened limbs

would bear him; but at length he straightened, and followed his guides

into the palace. They proceeded for some distance down a hall hung at

regular distances with finely wrought lamps, and at length turned into

a narrower passage that ended, Fidá could see, in another courtyard.

Before this was reached, however, they halted at a doorway closed by a

hanging; and here Fidá was bidden to enter and pass through into the

farthest room. Then he was left alone.

The captive gave a sigh of relief. After the long strain, just ended,

silence and semi-darkness seemed to him unspeakable boons. He longed

to lie down here upon the ground and sleep. That being impossible,

however, he took the only practicable advantage of the respite. Facing

toward what he believed to be the west,—and Mecca,—he threw himself

into the devout attitude and repeated the sunset prayers. Then,

relieved in mind and heart, he pushed aside the hanging, and entered

the apartment of Ragunáth. The first room was empty, illumined by a

single lamp, the light of which gave some indication of the richness of

the furnishings. Through this and another room Fidá passed, and then

halted on the threshold of the third, the living-room of a fortunate

man.

Here, reclining on a great pile of cushions, was the adviser and

confidant of the Rajah. Beside him, on a low stand, were a dish of rice

and a chased goblet containing wine. Two attendants were bathing his

feet with perfumed water; and at the opposite side of the room, under

a hideous image of Krishna, a Brahman was making the evening sacrifice

of meal and ghee, over two or three sticks of burning wood. Fidá forgot

himself in gazing at this scene, till Ragunáth, opening his eyes, which

were shut under the soothing influence of rest and quiet, cried out,

rather harshly:

“Come! Enter, slave! To thy knees!”

Fidá walked slowly forward, made a respectful salutation to the

master of the room, and then stood upright again. Ragunáth shrugged

his shoulders, but did not attempt to enforce his command, which was,

indeed, contrary to the etiquette of captivity, he being in no way

Fidá’s overlord. It was some moments before he would speak; and, during

the interval, the Brahman, his task over, turned to him, announcing:

“The evening Agnihotra is accomplished. Krishna and the gods are

appeased. I will depart,” and forthwith left the room. Then Ragunáth,

once more master of his tones, said smoothly:

“You are here, Asra, to choose the life of your captivity. Will you

wait imprisoned and guarded till there come members of your race

to treat for ransom; or will you take the clothing of the Rajah’s

household and become the servant of our lord, his cup-bearer, till the

time of your freedom?”

“Will not Rai-Khizar-Pál send messengers to treat with Omar for my

ransom?” cried Fidá, in amazement.

“The way is long and difficult. We are but just returned from a

dangerous campaign. The Rajah is satisfied with his victories.”

For some moments Fidá stared hopelessly at Ragunáth’s impenetrable

face. Then he bent his head beneath the tumultuous wave of bitterness

that overswept him. Finally, controlling himself, as all Arabs are

taught to do, he looked up again, and answered in an unnatural voice:

“I will enter the household of the Rajah. I will serve him as his

cup-bearer.”

Ragunáth nodded, and touched a gong beside his couch. After a moment’s

waiting a slave ran into the room, knelt before his master, and bent

his head to the floor.

“Radai, take this man to the house of slaves, and let him be clothed

in the fashion of the Rajah’s servants. He will serve to-night, at the

feast, as cup-bearer to the Lord Rai-Khizar-Pál. Go!”

The slave rose, took Fidá by the hand, and turned to leave the room,

when they perceived that a newcomer was standing in the doorway: a

eunuch of high office. Ragunáth, seeing him, gave an exclamation.

“Kasya! Enter! enter!”

“My lord summoned me?” The man did not move from the doorway, and Fidá

and his companion stood aside.

“Yes, yes, I summoned thee. How goes thy office? Enter, Kasya. All thy

work is well?”

“The Lady Ahalya—is well.”

The answer was made in such a tone as brought Fidá’s eyes to the face

of the man that uttered it. Kasya’s eyes were bright, Kasya’s lip was

curled, and Fidá perceived that the sarcasm, the almost insult, in the

eunuch’s tone had been fully intentional. In another moment Fidá was

drawn from the room, but not before he heard Ragunáth utter a smothered

oath, and had perceived a light of satisfaction in the eunuch’s eyes.

It was an incident unusual enough to impress itself on the mind of the

new-made slave; for he was sometimes a student of men. But there seemed

no adequate reason why one word, the name that Kasya had spoken, should

so have fixed itself in Fidá’s brain that, for the next hour or two,

it beat upon him with a constant rhythm, “Ahalya—Ahalya—Ahalya,” till

it seemed fuller of import than the great battle-cry the syllables of

which so much resembled it. And, in the end, Fidá accepted it as an

omen of all that afterward came upon him in this new land.

In the meantime the whole palace, and especially the great central

portion of it, had been humming with life. Manava, the regent-minister,

and all his staff of servants, were preparing an unexpected welcome for

the return of the Rajah and his victorious troops. By half-past eight

in the evening, the vast audience-hall presented a gala appearance; and

shortly after that hour Rai-Khizar-Pál, with Purán on his right hand,

Ragunáth on his left, and a great company bringing up the rear, entered

and was received at the foot of the daïs by Manava, who, with this act

of reception, discharged himself of his three months’ regency.

The hall, which was the largest in the palace, and opened immediately

from the central courtyard, was a remarkable example of the massive,

clumsy, and inartistic architecture of uninvaded India. Stone pillars,

of unequal size and design, supported the roof. The walls were covered

with multicolored hangings, and furthermore were to-night covered

with ropes of flowers. A hundred lamps of wrought bronze and silver

hung from the ceiling, and torches were fastened to the pillars. At

the head of the room, opposite the entrance, was the daïs, on which

stood a broad divan overhung with a canopy. This was the judgment seat

of Mandu, to be used to-night in a lighter cause. As the Rajah laid

himself in his place, the three high officials squatted on cushions

near the royal couch, each with a low, round stand before him. Below,

in the hall, stood three long, low tables, raised not more than eight

inches from the floor, beside which were rows of woven mats, on which

the feasters squatted in customary fashion. In three minutes every seat

was taken, and immediately a throng of slaves came hurrying in, each

bearing his burden of food or wine or metal bowls filled with water

for the washing of hands. Among these ministers of the feast was Fidá,

who came halting along in the rear, side by side with the young Ahmed,

now perfectly content by reason of the nearness of his lord. Fidá was

dressed in a loose white cotton vestment that hung to his ankles, and

was confined about his waist with a broad, red scarf. The sleeves were

wide and short, and the tunic opened loosely in the front, disclosing

his bare, bronzed chest. His feet were unshod; but his head was bound

round with a brass circlet, the sign of slavery. In his hands he

carried a jar of the liquor forbidden to his creed. As he neared the

royal divan many eyes were turned to him, and he was pointed out, here

and there, as a prince of the enemy; and if the feasters gazed at him

once for his station, they looked a second time at his beauty, for Fidá

was worthy of his birth. Taller in stature, better shaped as to limb,

cleaner-cut in feature than any Indian, he gave ample evidence of the

higher civilization and keener intellect of his race. For at this time

the men of Arabia were at the zenith of their power; and were bearing

the religion of their Prophet at the point of their swords into every

nation of the known world.

Fidá went up and bent the knee before his master; and Rai-Khizar-Pál

turned upon him a gentle and kindly glance. “Come up, young man. Let me

behold thee. So. Thou art named master of my drink. Fill, then, this

cup, and Indra grant it may be full forever!”

Fidá obeying this command, the Rajah lifted the golden vessel to his

lips, and instantly all those in the room sprang to their feet. He

drank deeply, replaced the cup on the stand before him, waved one hand

to his people, and the feast was opened.

To Fidá, tired, dreary, and, above all, famishing with hunger, the

meal seemed endless. It was not, indeed, a refined sight to one

suffering as he suffered. Flagon after flagon of wine he poured into

the Rajah’s bowl, dish after dish of the richest food was presented

at the royal stand, mountain after mountain of meat, river on river

of drink, disappeared under the attacks of the feasters below; and

still there was no end. One man alone, of all the number, displayed

some fastidiousness in his taste. Ragunáth, after a moderate meal,

ceased to eat, and sat cross-legged on his cushion, silent, motionless,

oblivious, seemingly, of the sights and sounds around him: untempted by

any viand or wine to exceed his capacity. In spite of this fact Fidá

could not regard the man with admiration or even with respect. For to

the prejudiced eyes of the slave, delicacy in Ragunáth only assumed a

guise of affectation.

Time went on, hours apparently had passed, and still Fidá’s

ministrations as cup-bearer showed no sign of diminishing. Finally,

however, relief came from an unexpected source. Kasya, the head eunuch,

whom Fidá had already seen, glided into the room through a small door

to the right of the daïs, connecting the audience hall with the Rajah’s

private apartments. Kasya knelt before Rai-Khizar and murmured a few

words which brought the royal master to his feet, exclaiming to those

near him:

“Come, my friends, let us go. There is to be dancing.”

Purán and Manava rose at once from their cushions, Ragunáth emerged

from his spell, and the three of them, with Kasya and one or two

slaves, followed the Rajah from the room, unnoticed by the rabble below.

Fidá, to his infinite relief, found himself left behind. He realized,

indeed, that he was at the end of his endurance; and this fact made

him bold. Going to Ragunáth’s place, he sat down and set to work upon

the untouched food left there. Never had slave been so daring before;

but, also, never before had a meal been so direfully needed. As he

ate, he regarded the crowd below apprehensively; for he did not know

what discovery might bring. But the great feast was nearly at an end.

Half the company had gone straggling off to their beds. Of those that

remained, few were in condition to observe anything; and, to his

reassurance, Fidá presently perceived that slaves and servitors had

begun to slip into empty places, and to begin their part of the meal.

Among this number was Ahmed; and when presently the eyes of the two

met, Fidá nodded slightly, and the other came running to the daïs, and

stood before his master.

“Sit here by me, and eat, Ahmed,” commanded the young man.

“My lord! It is not fitting—”

“Sit here. Am I not a slave also? There! Here is lamb roasted with

cinnamon and stuffed with raisins and sugar. Excellent! Eat of it. And

this is deer flesh. And here is sesame, and rice, and a duck fried in

oil. They do not starve in Mandu; but I have seen no water in this

room.”

“I will fetch it!” and Ahmed darted away, to return presently with the

prescribed liquid in a large, porous bottle.

Fidá drank gratefully, and then the two ate in silence, while below

them, minute by minute, the great hall grew quieter. The meal was

almost finished, and Fidá was smiling at the contentment of his devoted

little servitor, when suddenly a eunuch came running through the

Rajah’s door, and, seeing Fidá seated tranquilly on the daïs, gave him

a violent cuff on the head, crying out:

“Dog! Leave thy gluttony and come to the King. He calls for his

‘cup-bearer’.—Faithful cup-bearer thou! Come!”

At the blow, both Mohammedans leaped to their feet; and the Asra stared

upon the eunuch, his face flaming with anger. Ahmed, indeed, would

have thrown himself upon the man, but that Fidá fortunately regained

his temper, and, restraining the lad’s arm, bent his head before the

messenger, and with a slight smile at Ahmed’s outraged expression,

followed his guide from the room.

They passed through a hallway more richly furnished than any Fidá

himself had ever seen; and then, crossing a corridor, turned down

a narrow passage into the open doorway of the “theatre”—a large,

irregular room, with a slightly elevated platform at one end, and the

usual daïs at the other.

The place was brilliantly lighted. Rai-Khizar-Pál lay upon a divan; and

disposed about him were his usual companions, together with one or two

new officials, and a dozen or more slaves, who crouched back in the

shadow of the hangings. In one corner of the room, below the stage,

sat three musicians, playing, upon their strange-shaped instruments,

a rhythmical minor air. The stage was occupied by six nautch-dancers,

gayly and scantily clad, of their type good-looking, perhaps. They were

performing a dance with which Fidá was familiar enough, having seen it

many times at Delhi. It was called the “serpent”, and appeared to be

highly acceptable to the spectators. The Rajah was laughing and talking

genially, and even Ragunáth’s face wore a smile. At the entrance of

Fidá, Rai-Khizar called him to the couch and good-naturedly abused him

for deserting his post. The Arab offered no excuse, and was finally

ordered to his task of pouring wine. Cups and jar stood close at hand;

and from time to time the whole company drank a toast to some favorite

performer. Fidá, refreshed by food and encouraged by the leniency of

his master, watched the stage with some interest. In the course of an

hour many dancers came and went. There were sometimes six, again two,

occasionally one, on the stage; and all the time the low, droning,

monotonous music never ceased.

In time the audience began to grow drowsy under the effects of light,

wine, and unceasing sound. Rai-Khizar had nodded on his pillows, and

Ragunáth yawned openly. By and by all the dancers left the stage, and

the musicians’ tune died away. The Rajah started up, demanding to know

why the dance stopped without his command. But, while he spoke, the

music began again, this time with a different air, a swinging, graceful

melody, new to its hearers. A little murmur of approval came from

Manava and Purán. The rest waited. Then Fidá, his curiosity awakened,

saw a woman run on to the stage:—a woman fair-skinned, dark-eyed, with

a wreath of poppies woven into her hair, and garments of scarlet gauze

flying about her slender, beautifully shaped figure. For an instant he

shut his eyes; and, before he could open them again, there burst from

two throats the same hoarse cry:

“Ahalya!”

Rai-Khizar-Pál and Ragunáth together had started to their feet; but

she who danced only smiled and half lowered the lids of her dark and

lustrous eyes.

“Ahalya!” shouted the Rajah, in a frenzy of excitement. “Ahalya! Get

thee from this room! How darest thou appear—in this place? Kasya—take

her away!”

As the enormity of his wife’s offence grew upon him, Rai-Khizar’s wrath

waxed hotter till he stood panting with emotion as Kasya dashed upon

the stage. Ragunáth, entirely forgetting himself, stood still, gazing

upon the charming figure of the young woman, with a light in his eyes

that was all too easy to read. Of the rest, slaves and officials alike

watched the scene with impartial interest, all but Fidá, who, even

after Ahalya, rebellious and laughing at her escapade, had left the

room, still crouched in the shadow of the canopy, the blood pounding

at his temples, his heart literally standing still, his brilliant eyes

staring as at the vision of the wonderful red and white beauty of

Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál of Mandu in Malwa.

CHAPTER II

THE INCEPTION OF A FLAME

Fidá slept that night on a divan in an antechamber of the Rajah’s

suite, instead of in his lawful place, the house of slaves behind

the palace. This breach of duty came about simply enough. After the

tumultuous breaking-up of the party in the theatre, the slaves in

attendance on the Rajah and his officials seized the opportunity for

retiring, and disappeared with such quiet zeal that, three minutes

after Ahalya’s departure from the stage, Fidá found himself alone

on the daïs in the empty room. Rai-Khizar had rushed away to his

delinquent wife; and the officials, tired out, lost no time in betaking

themselves to their own apartments. Fidá was perfectly well aware of

the situation of the house of slaves. He had dressed there in the early

evening. But the Asra had no intention of passing the night in that

uninviting spot if it could be helped. After a moment’s consideration,

therefore, he left the theatre and wandered through the tangled web of

little rooms constituting the royal suite, till he came upon one room

which promised comparative safety for the night. It was unlighted. He

believed it to be out of the way of the more inhabited part. And all

round it ran a divan well covered with cushions. So, without stopping

to consider consequences, Fidá lay down upon the pleasant couch, buried

his tired head in a pillow, and in five minutes was sleeping the sleep

of the slave.

He woke by degrees. First there was the consciousness of light;

secondly of a weight upon his heart; thirdly it was extraordinarily

still. Evidently he was not in camp. Was it Delhi—the palace? He opened

his eyes to see—and he saw. Memory brought a groan to his lips; but he

stifled it, half-uttered, and lay still to consider his situation. The

first thing that occurred to him was that it must be past the hour of

morning prayer. Rising, then, he turned his back to the sunlight that

streamed in through a half-screened window, and, having gone through

the form of ablution permitted when water is not at hand, he began the

_Niyyat_, speaking in Arabic. The syllables fell lovingly from his

lips, and his heart swelled with the comfort of his religion. Except

the moment at Ragunáth’s door on the previous evening, this was the

first solitude that had been his since the day of battle in which he

had been taken captive by the Rajah. During the succeeding days he

had stumbled through his prayers as he lay bound in tents, or rode,

strapped to the mule, along rough paths through the hills. At last he

was alone, unhampered, free to take the attitudes of prayer, free also

to whisper the words of his own tongue, which of late years he had

seldom used in ordinary intercourse with men.

Yet Fidá was not to end his devotions as he had begun them. He was

standing with eyes cast down, repeating the _Subhán_:

“Holiness to thee, O God!

And praise be to thee!

Great is thy name,

Great is thy greatness;

There is no deity but thee!”

when a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway, and the captive’s words

were stopped short as he met the eyes of Rai-Khizar-Pál, his conqueror.

So amazed was he that Fidá forgot to kneel or to give any sign of

abasement. Thus they stood, gazing each at the other. Perhaps some

mute message was carried from the slave to the master; for the Rajah’s

expression little by little softened, till at length he asked quietly:

“What is it thou doest here, Asra?”

Fidá bent his head. “Mighty lord, I prayed.”

The Rajah smiled slightly, lifted one of his hands to the curtain

beside him, grasped it, and settled into an easier position. “Thou art

not a good servant, Asra,” he observed at last.

“It has not hitherto been my place to serve, O King.”

There was another pause, while the Rajah’s eyes travelled around the

room. “Thou hast slept here?”

“Yes.”

“And why? Knowest thou not the house of slaves?”

For a second Fidá hesitated. Then he answered, “Too well I knew it,

Lord Rajah.”

“What sayest thou?”

“Thou, O King—wouldst thou lie among the base born?”

“_I!_—I am Kshatriya! Among you there is no caste.”

“There is pride.”

Rai-Khizar laughed. “Thou’st a tongue, slave. It were my duty to have

thee whipped. But this day is a day devoted to the gods. Begone, then.

Get thee a morning meal and wait for a message from me. Yet remember

this, my Asra: here there is no prince but me. If thou anger me, I

shall have thee killed.”

“You dare not!” rose to Fidá’s lips, but he checked the words; for it

was indeed time that he learned his place. And he stood with lowered

head as the Rajah turned away and left him.

This encounter strongly affected Fidá’s state of mind. Reconsidering

the conversation, he perceived that he stood the debtor of the man

whose slave he had become—an infidel dog, a worshipper of images and

Jinn. It could not be denied that Rai-Khizar’s toleration was greater

than that of any Arab chief; and Fidá felt bitterly the humiliation of

his leniency. Yet in all the Rajah’s mildness there had been a dignity

that inspired in the Mohammedan an unwilling admiration and respect.

Perfunctorily, Fidá finished his prayers, and then acted upon the first

of the two commands of his master:—he left the palace in search of

food. It was some time, however, before he found it, and then only in

the house of slaves, where a number of his fellows were beginning the

morning meal. Among them was Ahmed, who sat a little apart from the

chattering herd, apparently watching for some one. At sight of Fidá he

rose eagerly and ran forward, greeting him with marks of respect which

the Asra reproved. Then the boy led the way into the interior of the

dirty, barren house, in the centre of which was a wood fire, overhung

by a large iron pot filled with a bubbling mass of millet. Near by, on

a stand, was an immense bowl of clarified butter, or “ghee”, which,

mixed with the meal, formed the staple as well as the sacrificial food

of the low-caste Hindoo throughout India. Fidá waited in silence while

Ahmed handily procured him a dish of the none too appetizing mess. And

then, eager to escape the vile and smoky air of the interior, the two

hurried out into the shaded veranda, while the other slaves were eating.

It was now a not unpleasant scene that the captives looked upon. The

day was hot, gay with sunshine and the chatter of birds, sweet with the

perfume of the jessamine vines, which were still covered with flowers.

The slave-house faced the angle of the palace formed by the juncture

of the central building and the south wing. Directly opposite them

was a long, wooden-pillared arcade called the veranda, running the

length of the wing. It was covered with flowering vines, and furnished

like a great room, with cushions and stands and hangings in place of

more customary frescoes. In the end that faced the central courtyard,

invisible from without, was a temple room, the priests of which seemed

to spend the greater part of their lives lounging on mats in the

fragrant veranda. In this same side of the palace lodged Manava’s suite

and Purán’s; and at the end of all was a wooden barracks, where the

soldiers were now just waking from the sleep induced by last night’s

festivity. A group of these hung about the well, which stood between

the house of slaves and their domicile, waiting their turn for water.

There was a general splashing and shouting, little laughter, but also

no swearing, for the Hindoo is always clean-mouthed.

From their vantage-point, Ahmed and Fidá, observing this life, found

themselves entertained; for all the human nature of the palace

found vent here. The two captives lingered over their meal, talking

generally; and presently Fidá remarked on the number of slaves who had

been passing and repassing near them. Ahmed answered him at once:

“There are more than three hundred employed here—including eunuchs, who

do not sleep in this house. I have been made a sweeper. This morning

the slave-master, Kanava, roused me at dawn, gave me a broom of dried

kusa grass and sent me, with nine others, to sweep the corridors of the

north wing.”

“Then thou hast had little enough sleep. Go, therefore, lie down and

rest while I sit here. By my life, I would I knew what my duties are to

be. No one orders me about. I am given no instructions. I have not even

seen this Kanava.”

“Ah, dear lord, to think that thou must serve! He—Look. There is a stir

opposite.”

Two slaves had entered the veranda of the south wing, and went running

down it, shouting, as they went, some unintelligible words. At the

sound, men came pouring out of the interior rooms, and turned in the

direction of the courtyard, whither, in a moment or two, there moved a

long procession of priests, soldiers, and petty officials. The last of

these had not yet disappeared when every rear doorway and opening in

the main building near by began to let forth slaves, who came toward

their particular house in a straggling group of almost two hundred.

“It is a big sacrifice,” observed Fidá, who was familiar enough with

Indian customs to know that no Sudra can participate in the service of

the gods.

“Yes, early this morning there stood erected in the courtyard a great

altar, to which many men were bringing fagots and flowers. It will be

an animal sacrifice also; for a dozen sacred cows were tethered in an

enclosure there when I passed through.”

“The animal sacrifice is not common. I have never seen one. It must be

in honor of victory.”

Ahmed did not answer. His eyes were fixed on a man who had come out

of the palace alone and was running toward the slave-house. “That is

Kanava,” he whispered, as the man drew near. Fidá beheld a cruel face,

marked with lines of habitual ill-temper and impatience, and rendered

doubly unpleasant by the deep pock-marks which pitted it everywhere.

His dress was that of the common slaves; but the band about his head

was of beaten silver. At his appearance the clamor in the slave-house

suddenly ceased. Ahmed jumped to his feet, but Fidá remained seated,

his empty bowl in his lap. Kanava scowled at the breach of respect, and

shouted:

“Up, slave! Up! You are summoned. Come!”

Fidá rose obediently, went to the first opening in the trellis, and

stepped to Kanava’s side. Together they started toward the palace, and

the groups left behind looked after Fidá, with new respect; for, though

he had been rash, Kanava had neither struck nor abused him, and was

now, moreover, walking not in front of him, but at his side.

As they neared the palace, Fidá’s curiosity as to their errand rose.

But he would ask no questions, and Kanava did not offer information. So

in silence they entered the palace, walked down long corridors to the

audience hall, now cleared of every trace of last night’s festivity,

and finally to the threshold of the outer door, where, without a

word, Kanava turned and left the Asra standing stock-still before a

remarkable scene.

He had but an instant’s view of the thing in its entirety:—a vast,

close-packed sea of people, garlanded, decked, nay robed, in the

brightest flowers; in the centre of the living mass a high, square

altar, piled with firewood; and surrounding the altar, ranged in

symmetrical order, twelve sacred cows, twelve accompanying priests,

and twelve huge, earthen jars. All this Fidá took in at one, swift

glance. The next instant a universal shout arose, and he was seized and

drawn through the crowd, which opened for him, by two young Brahmans,

naked except for loin-cloths and the sacred cord. In a moment Fidá

was beside the altar, where stood the Rajah, flaming with jewels, and

Ragunáth, scarcely less magnificent. Here, without a moment’s delay,

the bewildered captive was taken in hand by two snatakas, and bound,

hand and foot, with ropes. Then, as at some signal, the twelve priests

began to chant those verses of the Rig-Veda that are designed for the

great Srahda sacrifice. The crowd was silent now. There was not a

whisper; there was scarcely a movement among them all. The twelve gray

cows stood, as if long accustomed to such sights, mildly surveying

the people. Fidá felt himself like them. He was stunned into perfect

tranquillity. His eyes wandered aimlessly; he listened without interest

to the words of the chant. He counted the number of flowers in the

garland round the neck of the nearest cow. And all the time his mind

was really circling about one idea, too horrible to be faced. For he

had no doubt that he was to be the first offering in that triumphal

sacrifice. This was the reason for Ragunáth’s evasion about his ransom.

This was the explanation of Rai-Khizar’s mildness. Fidá looked toward

the Rajah, whose eyes were fixed reverently on the ground. The next

instant, however, he had caught Ragunáth’s glance, and the minister

was smiling at him—a small, cruel, white-toothed smile, a smile like

a grimace, that sent a sudden bolt through Fidá’s heart. Ragunáth

could smile upon him in his death-hour! In that moment hatred was born

in the Arab:—a hatred for this man, which, through all their future

intercourse, never lessened and was never still.

At length the chant came to an end. Fidá felt a breath of relief; for

self-control was becoming difficult. Now, at last, he was seized by the

stalwart young Brahmans and lifted, like a log of wood, up and up till

he was laid on his back on top of the great heap of unlit firewood.

A hoarse shout went up from the people gathered below. Fidá’s heart

throbbed to suffocation. His hair was literally rising on his head; but

he made no movement, nor did he utter any sound. Even in his horror he

remembered the behavior of women enduring the suttee, and the memory

shamed him into stillness. Under the fierce rays of the sun, now in

mid-sky, he closed his eyes and waited—waited for the first crackling

flame to leap upon his flesh. Evidently the time for this had not yet

come. Again the priests were praying those endless, senseless, Vedic

prayers, to Indra, to Vishnu, to Agni—Agni, the fire-god. How long

he lay upon the pyre Fidá did not know. It was at once a century and

a second. Then the voices of the priests were still. Once more he

was seized by the head and the feet and lifted to the ground. There

his ropes were cut. He was free again. Trembling and faint, he found

himself facing the King’s minister, who was smiling at him still.

“The captive did not know,” he murmured, “that our sacrifices are

bloodless.”

Fidá felt himself redden, and the next instant met the eyes of the

Rajah, who was staring at him in amazement: “Knew you not? told they

you not? Didst fear such a death? It was a needless fear. Human blood

stains not the altars of our gods. You, the foremost of our captives,

were laid upon the altar of Indra as a sign that we attribute all our

victories to him. That ceremony is over. You are free to depart from

the sacrifice.” And, with a friendly gesture, the Rajah turned away

again, and Fidá knew himself dismissed.

It was not now so easy a task to force his way through the dense

crowd; for this time they did not voluntarily make way for him. He was

fiercely possessed with the desire, however, to escape from this mob

who had been unconscious witnesses of what he felt to be his cowardice.

And, after a persistent pushing and edging, he found himself beyond

the people and in front of that doorway where he had dismounted the

night before. Here Ragunáth had stood and watched him, but had not then

read his soul; or, if he had, had found there nothing of which an Asra

might be ashamed. Now!—Coward or not, that Asra was leaning up against

the palace wall, gone very faint, even his knees trembling with the

reaction of a strain that had been greater than he realized.

He remained standing here for a long time, regaining command of

himself, and, afterward, attracted by the spectacle before him. The

wood on the altar had been lighted, and a hot, wavering flame leaped

high in the centre of the garland-strewn multitude. Into this fire went

the contents of the jars that had stood at the base of the altar:—four

of fine, ground meal, four of ghee, and four of strained honey. From

this sacrificial mess arose a thick smoke; but the odor that came from

it was, surprisingly enough, decidedly agreeable; for the meal and

butter had been so skilfully treated with aromatics that the natural

smell of burning vegetable and grease had been overcome. The sacrifice

was of course accompanied by a continuous high and musical chant from

the priests. Chapter after chapter of the Vedas they repeated without

halt or break. Prayers were sent up to every Vedic god: to Vishvakarma,

the all-maker, to Varuna and Mitra, to Agni, to Surya, to Yama, to

the Ashvins, brothers of dawn and twilight, to Rudra, the storm-god,

and Vivasat, the father of death. The sacred cattle were offered to

Prishni, the holy cow of heaven; and, their spirits being accepted

by a sign in the flame, they were led away to resume their duties in

the great temple at the other end of the plateau. Finally, at the

conclusion of the ceremony, the last god was introduced: he who, for

many centuries, had played the great rôle in this ceremonial: Soma,

lord of the moon, and lord of drunkennesses, whose name is that of the

plant from which the powerful, sacred liquor is distilled. And at the

first pronouncing of this name, the sacrifice was interrupted by the

arrival of fifty slaves, who made their appearance from the great hall,

bearing on their heads jars of the liquid to be quaffed to the great

ones above. They were greeted by a long, loud murmur of anticipatory

joy, such as no lavish display of meal or cattle could ever call forth

from the crowd. And now at last Fidá, too well aware of what was to

follow, turned from the courtyard down the corridor through which he

had passed on the previous night, on his way to Ragunáth’s rooms.

He walked slowly along the cool, dim hall, the silence of which was

refreshing. Evidently there was not a single soul in this part of

the palace; and for an instant there rose in the mind of the captive

a wild idea of escape. He was here, alone, unseen—and hundreds of

miles away from his uncle’s army, hundreds of miles from any possible

safety. Sanity returned as quickly as it had left him, but bringing

a new heaviness on his spirit. He came presently to the passage

that led to Ragunáth’s rooms; and, looking down it, perceived that

it ended in a bright patch of sunlight, marking an inner court.

Instinctively he turned thither, finding himself presently on the

edge of a charming little three-cornered courtyard, shut in on every

side by vine-clad walls. Opposite the passage ran a veranda, overrun

with passion-flowers; and in a corner near by rose a group of small

tamarinds. The courtyard was unpaved, but in the centre of it stood a

little fountain of clear, bubbling spring-water. This place, like the

corridor, was without a sign of life; but, pleased with its homelike,

pleasant air, Fidá entered it, suddenly seized with a sense of

unfamiliar delight.

As if in answer to his appearance, a door across from him was opened,

and out upon the veranda, and thence into the court, came a young

woman, unveiled, dressed in pale, flowing silk, her hips bound with a

striped sash, of the broad Indian fashion, her dark hair twined with

purple clematis. She was humming to herself a little tune; and as she

hummed, she swayed her lithe body from side to side and stepped as a

dancer does. Fidá drew a sharp breath. She was the woman who had danced

the night before. She was Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál.

She was—the fairest creature that Fidá’s eyes had ever looked upon.

As he drew quickly back into the shadow of the doorway, he knew, as

one knows things in dreams and visions, that it was her spirit filling

this place that had made it dear to him. Oblivious of himself, he stood

gazing at her while she came to the fountain, sat down upon its brim,

and dabbled her hands in the cool water, smiling to herself the while,

reminiscently.

Presently, lifting her eyes, she looked full upon Fidá, and, startled

out of her composure, jumped to her feet, and then stood still again,

uncertain whether she wished to run or not. Fidá advanced matters by

walking forward into the courtyard again and performing a deep salaam

before her. She saw the metal circlet on his head, knew him for a

slave, and yet lifted up her voice and spoke to him. What manner of

woman could she be!

“Who art thou? What is thy name?” she asked, surprising herself by her

unpremeditated boldness. The beauty of her voice, however, made the

slave’s senses swim anew.

“My name is Fidá. I come from Yemen. And my race is the race of Asra—”

he looked into her eyes, and his voice sank to a whisper, as he added

involuntarily, “who must die if they cherish love!”

The girl started slightly; but she did not move while he looked at her,

her white face, her deep, heavy-lidded eyes with their long, black

fringes, and the slender white throat left uncovered by her dress.

Presently she spoke again, more timidly: “Thou’rt a captive—brought

home from war by my lord?”

“I am a captive. I am the slave of thy lord. May Allah pity me!” And

this last was drawn from him not by the thought of his captivity, but

by the sight of her surpassing loveliness.

Ahalya’s expression softened and grew wistful. “I am a captive too,”

she said. “I was born in Iran.”

“The land of roses! I have been in Iran. We passed through it on our

long march from Yemen. And we rested in Teheran, where our people have

made treaties with the Shah.”

He hoped to see her eyes brighten when he spoke of her country. But

she only gazed dreamily beyond him and answered: “I do not remember

it—Teheran. I was a baby when my mother brought me into this land. She

was in the house of the King of Dhár, and from there I was married to

the King of Mandu.—But thou must go, Asra! Thou’lt be—killed if they

find thee here.”

“Nay, lady!” Fidá suddenly fell upon one knee. “Let me stay but another

moment. Thou—thou hast made captivity so fair to me!”

“Hush, Asra! Go quickly. Indeed, indeed, I would not have thee harmed.”

She drew back from him, and he, coming suddenly to his senses, rose and

turned away. Yet before he reached the doorway he had twice looked back

at her, and each time found her facing him, her great eyes shining, a

half smile trembling round her lips.

Fidá reached the corridor on fire. It was as if he had been drinking

Soma. His blood raced in his veins. His heart pounded. His hands

were cold. Yet he was not too much distraught to hear the sound of

some one approaching in the corridor; and, with a quick sense of

self-protection, he slipped into the nearest doorway, and concealed

himself behind the hangings of Ragunáth’s antechamber.

The newcomer had come down the passage; and Fidá, peering cautiously

out, perceived, with a start, that it was Ragunáth who was

approaching—Ragunáth, the mild, the temperate, who had left the Soma

sacrifice and come hither alone, to seek—quiet? To Fidá’s surprise and

momentary relief, he passed his own doorway, and went on toward the

little courtyard. And now the slave, suddenly forgetting himself in his

interest in the movements of the man he hated, stepped full into the

passage and watched. In the courtyard Ahalya was still seated beside

the fountain; but at sight of Ragunáth she rose hastily.

“She was here to watch for him!” thought Fidá; and he clenched his

hands at the thought.

Ragunáth went up to the princess and bowed before her as profoundly as

Fidá himself had bowed. Evidently, at the same time, he spoke. Ahalya,

however, began at once to move backward, away from him, he following

her by degrees, till they had proceeded clear across the court. And

then, suddenly, at the veranda step, the young woman turned around, and

literally ran into the women’s apartments, whither none could follow

her.

Ragunáth would be coming back now, and Fidá perceived the necessity for

a quick escape. In a moment or two he was back in the broad corridor;

and, looking round the angle into the passage, saw Ragunáth come slowly

in from the court and enter his own rooms. From the man’s walk Fidá

read enough to satisfy him. “She was not waiting,” he thought; and

at the idea his spirits rose dizzily. Yet, after all, in this last

pleasant surmise he was wrong.

CHAPTER III

AHALYA

Short of breath, flushed of face, and discomposed in temper, the Ranee

Ahalya entered her day-room after the brief interview with Ragunáth.

As she appeared, a girl, who sat on some cushions at the side of the

room, working at a piece of embroidery, rose and bowed, and then asked

eagerly:

“Did he come?”

Ahalya flung herself down on the broad divan that ran across the end

of the room under the screened windows. “Yes, he came,” she said,

petulantly. Then, after a moment’s reflection, she added: “I hate him,

Neila.”

“Did he—what did he say?” asked the handmaid, forgetting her work as

she watched her mistress.

“I don’t know what he said. How should I? I did not think of him. But I

think he dishonors the gods. They were all at sacrifice, and he stole

away because he does not like Soma. Nor is it good,” she added, with a

touch of sympathy.

“But he is a man, and should have a man’s tastes.”

Ahalya shrugged her shoulders, and the two of them were silent for a

few minutes, Neila waiting patiently for the mystery that she knew her

lady would reveal—in time. Presently, indeed, the Ranee began to speak,

in a low, reflective tone as if she were merely thinking aloud. “In

all those months when my lord and the rest were away, fighting, I have

thought many times of Ragunáth, who was kind to me at my first coming

here. I thought I should be happy when he came again. I wanted him to

come. And oh, Neila, thou knowest the days have been long and lonely,

and I have been sick for Dhár and for my mother. My lord is very tender

of me, and I know that he is good. But he is not young and beautiful

to look on. His eyes are not bright nor do his lips smile when he sees

me. And Ragunáth seemed younger and more in love with life. Last night,

when I danced the poppy dance, it was for him. But, Neila, I have

perceived that he is not a man. He makes me think of a snake, with his

shiny eyes and his long, still hands. He does not burn with an honest

fire.—Ugh, I hate him! So will I tell my lord.”

“Thou wilt not, Lady Ahalya! Thou darest not tell the Rajah you have

seen this man! We should all be killed!” Neila sprang to her feet, her

work dropping unheeded, while she stared at her mistress, who lay,

hands clasped above her head, staring off into space, nor gave the

slightest heed to her companion’s fear. Thus Neila presently returned

to her place and took up her work again, not without anxiety in her

eyes; for the service of the youngest wife of the Lord of Mandu was,

to say the least, no monotonous life. Ahalya was as erratic and as

reckless as an existence of stifled loneliness can make a young,

brilliant, and impulsive nature. And this very careless openness,

mingled as it was with a singularly pure and unsuspicious nature, had

won a place for her with every one, from the King of Mandu down to the

humblest eunuch of the zenana. She was even tolerated by Malati, the

oldest wife, who had been born a Brahman. And than this nothing more

can be said.

For some moments Ahalya continued to smile into space; which smile,

considering her just-avowed aversion to Ragunáth, Neila was decidedly

at a loss to interpret. Then Ahalya asked:

“Neila, have any of the slaves told thee anything concerning the

captives brought home in the Rajah’s train?”

“Yes, Kasya spoke to me of one of them, who has been made the King’s

cup-bearer. He presumes greatly on his station; for last night he would

not even sleep in the slave-house, but lay on the divan in one of the

Rajah’s antechambers, sleeping like a god. This man was a prince of his

race:—At—Ak—I cannot remember—”

“Asra,” put in Ahalya, quietly.

“Asra! ’Tis that!”

Ahalya sat suddenly up and leaned forward a little. “Kasya told you

this! Said he more? What will they do with him? Will he be ransomed?”

“The captive, madam?” Neila, so used to her mistress’s whims, was still

surprised at this one. “I do not know what they will do with him. Kasya

did not tell me. He was offered on Indra’s altar to-day—being by birth

Kshatriya, and the chief of the captives.”

“Yes. He is a prince. Neila, I have seen this man.”

“Seen him! Oh, Ranee, Ranee, be careful! Why, he is a slave! If he were

seen speaking with thee—they would burn him!”

Ahalya laughed joyously. “None saw him but me. He came before Ragunáth.

And, Neila, he told me a strange thing. He said: ‘I come from Yemen;

and my race is the race of Asra, who must die if they cherish love!’

What could he mean by that? To die because one loved! I should not die,

I think. Neila, Neila, _he_ was young, and his eyes shone. Neila!

I am lonely! Go bring to me the young Bhavani. Say to him that I will

tell him the tale he loves most to hear: of Prince Arjuna and the great

bow and the beautiful Princess Draupadi.” Ahalya smiled. “Go tell him,

Neila, and put away that endless work of thine.”

Obediently the girl rose, left her embroidery lying on the cushions,

and went out of the room. When she was gone, Ahalya stretched herself

still more lazily on her divan, closed her eyes to the light, and,

as if she saw with her mind things more beautiful than real, smiled

slightly, and began to sing the swaying melody of the poppy dance.

About her was a perfect stillness. Not a sound, not so much as the

tones of women’s voices from the interior of the zenana, penetrated to

her solitude. Perhaps her reverie was broken by the silence, but she

only smiled the more; for it had come to be an uncanny habit with her

to smile through her loneliest and saddest hours. Only at those rare

times when joy or interest lifted her out of herself did her face show

all the strength and purity of its melancholy beauty. Her heritage from

her mother was a self-defence of constant concealment, and a kind of

inward cynicism, which, never revealed on the surface, was nevertheless

constantly nourished and strengthened by the many humiliations of her

existence. Just now she was considering her performance of the evening

before, and the results of it, when, after she had left the theatre,

her lord had come to her in great anger, expecting tears, repentance,

and abasement from her, and had got only petulance, rebellion, and

remorseless laughter, so that finally, worked into a fierce rage,

he had left her alone to wake to a realization of her offence. This

realization had by no means come; and she fully expected the Rajah to

appear before her that evening humbly craving favor; for experience

had taught her that she need never be the first to surrender.

Rai-Khizar-Pál loved her far more dearly than she, unhappy child,

cared for him, grave, honorable, and just as he was; and it was to her

carelessness of favor and the consummate skill with which she let that

carelessness be known, that the Lady Ahalya owed the favoritism she

enjoyed and the rooms she lived in.

These rooms were the choicest in the zenana. They consisted of a tiny

suite of three, opening from a passage that led directly into the main

palace. The first of them was an antechamber, heavily spread with

rugs, walled with carved wood brought from Ceylon, and lighted day and

night by a single crimson lamp suspended from the ceiling. The second

room, in which Ahalya now lay, was a light and pleasant place, its

floors covered with silken rugs, the walls frescoed gayly with birds

and flowers, the furniture and the thousand ornaments it contained all

of the costliest variety, and, at the end farthest from the windows,

a little shrine to Rahda, the Lady of Love. The last room, accessible

only through the other two, was the sleeping-room, its walls hidden by

silken hangings of pale purple and gold; its couch covered with cloth

of gold; the chests to hold the Ranee’s garments, of precious woods

inlaid with ivory and pearl, lined with sandal-wood; and teak-wood

toiletstands displaying mirrors, brushes, perfumes, and cosmetics

wherewith a woman might be beautified:—a heavily gilded room indeed,

and one in which Ahalya spent little time.

Beyond these apartments of the favorite wife, across the whole length

of this inner palace wing, stretched a long, narrow room, furnished

with every luxury that Indian ingenuity could devise. This was the

women’s day-room,—their common lounging-place,—where wife and slave

met together in free converse. Around it were ranged the rooms of the

other wives: Malati’s, where the young Bhavani, Rai-Khizar-Pál’s only

son, the heir of Mandu, lodged with his mother; Bhimeg’s the Kshatriya

woman’s; and those of Chundoor, the despised Sudra wife. At the end of

the wing, farthest from the palace, lived the women slaves; and beyond

was a separate house for the eunuchs. Such was the zenana, in the days

of Indian rule in Mandu: a place full of life and color and sound; of

interminable jealousy, strife, and bitterness; a place which only one

man ever entered; he on whom all these women must expend the human love

and fidelity that lay seething in their hearts.

In the meantime, to Ahalya, waiting on her couch, came Neila, bringing

with her a lad ten years old, shaggy-headed, with big, black eyes,

and a sturdy figure, who went up and kissed the Ranee affectionately.

His eyes were bright with excitement as he cried to her: “Alaha!

Alaha!” (it was his name for her), “I have been riding to-day! Kasya

put me upon a horse, and we went almost to the old temple and back.

And—and I am to go every day now!” Trained studiously to the dignity

of his birth, he gave little active sign of his pleasure; but his face

expressed his delight, and Ahalya, more demonstrative than he, threw

her arms about him and laughed in sympathy.

“Beautiful, Bhavani! Beautiful! Now thou wilt soon be given a bow; and

then—”

“Then I shall really go and contend in the games before the beautiful

Draupadi!”

“Yes. Shall we play it now? You will be Arjuna, and these cushions your

horse. Pile them up! Pile them up!”

“Yes, and you are Draupadi, there on the divan, and I will ride before

you and contend with—with—”

“Neila!” cried Ahalya: “Neila! Where are you? There,” as the girl came

in at the door, “Neila, if you please, you are all the other princes

contending for my hand in the royal games. You are four of the sons of

Pandu, and the hundred sons of Hastinapura, and—”

“And I am to wrestle with you, and shoot you, and kill all of you,

Neila! And it will be splendid!”

And, Neila smilingly consenting to the slaughter, the game began. For

half an hour the contest raged fiercely; and finally Ahalya herself

came down from her throne to be killed by the all-conquering one. But

at last, when the little room looked as if a devastating army had

passed through it, the sport came to an end, and Ahalya and the little

boy sat down together to rest, while the untiring Neila began the task

of setting things to rights. It was then that Ahalya’s turn came, and

she lost no time in beginning:—

“Bhavani, hast seen thy father to-day?”

“Yes! Oh, yes! He left the Soma sacrifice to see me ride!”

“Was he—was he in a glad humor? Asked he of me?”

Neila paused in her labors to hear the answer to this question.

“He was very glad and gay. He gave me a piece of silver for sitting

straight on my horse. But—dear ’Laha, I think he did not ask for you.”

“And said he naught of any one else?”

“Of whom? Oh, but he just talked about me, and my riding, and how in a

few years I should go to war with him.”

Ahalya laughed, but not with her eyes. “Well, I am tired now. I am

going to sleep, Bhavani. Therefore run away. See what a mess we have

made of the room! Run away.”

“But—I may come again soon, to play Arjuna?”

“Oh, yes.”

“To-morrow?” wistfully.

“Yes. But go now, Bhavani.”

Obediently and reluctantly, Bhavani went.

When he was gone, Neila and Ahalya found themselves looking at each

other intently. “He will surely come this evening,” said the slave. “He

cannot stay away longer.”

Ahalya flushed and frowned. “I do not want him to come,” she said. “I

am tired. I am going to sleep now. Do not wake me till the evening

meal is ready.” And the Ranee forthwith disappeared into her bedroom,

pulling the purple hangings across the doorway behind her so that Neila

could not see, as she lay on her bed, whether she slept or not.

Rai-Khizar-Pál did not come that evening, nor the next day, nor the

next. And by the third afternoon Ahalya was secretly very anxious.

Nothing ever went unknown for twenty-four hours in the zenana: that

place whose inmates had nothing to do all day long but discuss each

other; and for two days now nothing had been talked of in the common

day-room but the favorite’s fall from favor. The Lord Rajah had been

at home from his campaign nearly four days and had seen Ahalya in

that time only once! Glory to Krishna! Who would get her place? On

the afternoon of the fourth day Ahalya, braving the worst, appeared

in the day-room. The chill of humiliation that met her was expected,

but none the less hard to endure. Malati, when profoundly saluted,

set the example for the room by barely noticing the Ranee. The very

slave-girls laughed at her as she passed them; and only Chundoor, the

Sudra woman, offered to make room for her. Ahalya, however, had not yet

come to passing a whole morning with a person of low caste; nor yet was

she to be driven from the day-room because Rai-Khizar-Pál was offended

with her for the poppy dance. After her one bow to Malati, who, as

oldest wife, was entitled to it, she walked once round the room,

leisurely chose out a pile of cushions apart from the general groups,

settled herself with inimitable, lazy grace, despatched one eunuch for

sweetened rose-water, commanded another to fan her, gave orders to

three or four more, and, when she had made herself important enough,

caused Neila to bring in a tray of toilet articles and begin to shape

and polish her nails. While Neila worked, she lay perfectly still,

surveying the company near by in a supercilious manner, and giving her

rivals ample opportunity to realize that, try as they would, not one of

them could ever approach her in beauty, in grace, or in charm.

By this time the whole room was in a ferment of disdain and concealed

envy. Suddenly, as if the excitement had not been already great enough

for one morning, Rai-Khizar-Pál appeared on the threshold, and looked

eagerly down the room. Every head was turned to him: Ahalya’s too, but

leisurely, and with an indifference that was noticeable. Scarcely did

she take the trouble to lift her eyelids, as the Rajah came slowly

forward. Her husband’s eyes were busy, however, during his ceremonious

progress; and he read a deal of history in that walk. It would have

been impossible for him not to have made the comparison between Ahalya

and those from whom she had so studiously withdrawn herself. Beside

their dark, heavy, sensual faces, hers, in its clear-cut, Persian

fairness, stood out as a rose among thistles, as gold beside brass.

This morning, after three days without her, the Rajah appreciated her

more keenly than usual; and, before her indifference, his displeasure

melted like mist in the sun. Stopping to speak with no one else,

he went to her, amid a sensible but scarcely audible murmur of

disappointment. Ahalya looked up only when he bent over her; but she

smiled at him for greeting, and he asked nothing better.

“My lotus-flower! My heart’s delight!” he said, gazing thirstily at

her fair face. “Ahalya! Thou wilt dance no more nautch dances at the

theatre?”

For a moment she seemed to hesitate. Then, because she had had enough

of playing for the time, she answered, truthfully enough: “Nay, lord.

I—am sorry that I danced the poppy dance.”

Rai-Khizar longed to take her in his arms; but this, in the face of all

the zenana, even he scarcely ventured to do. So, bending low over her,

he whispered:

“In two hours come to the marble bath, and we will eat together, alone,

by the fountain there. Make thyself beautiful for me, rose of Iran!—my

treasure!—my child!” Then, with the smile that he gave only to her, the

Rajah turned away, and left the room without speaking to any other in

it.

Ten minutes after he had gone Ahalya also departed, running the new

gantlet of hurt and angry glances with less indifference than she had

borne her humiliation an hour before. Her pride served her well in

trouble; but ill-natured jealousy always cut her to the quick; and she

had found but light armor against it.

Returning to her own room, she bathed, and let Neila dress her as the

Rajah commanded. Her garments were silken tissues of palest pink,

delicate as rose-petals. Her waist was girdled with gold and pearls;

and her hair braided and bound up with golden threads. When Neila

had finished her she was a picture, and she knew it, perhaps, though

she took small delight in it; for the unexpressed thought in her

heart was that she would have matched her raiment with her love; and

Rai-Khizar-Pál she loved as a father, as a venerable and powerful man;

her master, but never the lord of her heart.

The Rajah, however, was waiting her coming with very different

feelings; for he loved Ahalya as most men love only in early youth.

His delight in her was out of all proportion to his reserved and

conservative nature. On her he lavished the wealth of his treasury.

For her he would have sacrificed, without a thought, every other woman

in his zenana. And while her escapades and her insubordination never

failed to startle and hurt him, they only served, in the end, to bind

her more strongly to him by the chains of fascination and elusiveness.

The place where the two were to sup together was the Rajah’s favorite

retreat:—an open-roofed, white-colonnaded room, in the centre of which

was a broad, marble bathing-pool. Beside the water grew grasses and

flowers, carefully tended; and near at hand, on the marble pavement,

were piles of cushions, low stands, and all the articles of Oriental

furniture necessary to a retreat where even slaves were not allowed

to come without command. By night the marble terrace was lighted with

lamps placed on stands; and now, in a soft glow of rosy light, beside

an ebony table spread with choice dishes and rare wines, the Rajah lay,

appreciating the change of this miniature fairy-land from the rough

existence of camps and battle-fields; and waiting for that which should

put a finishing touch to his deep content.

She came, the Ranee of his soul, unattended, her delicate garments

floating about her like a cloud. At sight of her he exclaimed, and she

went to him, smiling and holding out her hands, secretly desirous that

he should not kiss her face. She had her wish. Scarcely daring to touch

her in her delicacy, he put her off at arm’s length, and gazed at her

in a kind of wonder that such a thing should be human.

“Beautiful one! My princess! Sit there and let me look at thee. Most

exquisite one! Art thou too frail to eat?” He smiled at his fears, and

began to lay before her the various dishes. “See, here are mangoes,

and figs, and tamarinds, and little custard apples. And here is a kid

cooked in sugar. And rice—and all these sauces. And there is a cup of

the wine of Iran, from thy mother’s land, beautiful one.”

With his own hands he served her, talking inconsequently, content

just to gaze upon her roseate presence. And Ahalya, who had been wont

to enjoy this patent adoration, sat wondering at herself that it had

become painful to her. She strove well to conceal her feeling, not

knowing what to make of it. And she ate, smiled, and praised the food

and wine, but could think of nothing else to say. She was dreading the

time that was coming; but she could not put it off. When both had eaten

enough, and when another jar of Persian wine had been opened for the

Rajah’s use, and Ahalya had washed her hands in a silver basin filled

with rose-water, Rai-Khizar lay back on his cushions, called the Ranee

to his side, and began tenderly:

“Thou’rt glad, beloved of mine, that I am returned to Mandu?”

Ahalya sighed. “I am glad,” she answered. “Oh—the days have been

dreary! The weeks would not pass. Loneliness hath killed my soul. Hath

my lord ever dreamed of the sadness of women’s lives when they are left

alone in the zenana?”

Rai-Khizar laughed, misunderstanding her words; but Ahalya flushed

with anger that he mocked her earnestness. Seeing her expression, his

changed at once. Laying one hand on hers, he said, gently:

“Thou hast been lonely, beautiful one? Tell me of it.”

“How can I tell thee, who hast not been a woman? There are we left, day

after day, hating and hated by those with whom we live. And we must

dress and powder and perfume, eat, drink, sew, and be content that we

have beds to sleep on by night and a prison to house us by day. If I

leave the palace and wander abroad in the fields, under the bright

sun, the women chatter and the slaves stare, and bearers must be at

my heels to carry me if I tire. I cannot sleep away my days. Rather I

would live like the Vaisya women, who are free to labor, and laugh, and

grow hungry and weary with their toil. The monotony, the idleness of

my life, kills my soul! It is for this I danced the poppy dance. It is

for this I sometimes sit for hours in the old, ruined temple of Surya,

watching the monkeys play in the cotton trees. It is for this I shout

and sing and tear to pieces my silken garments, and break the ivories

you bring me from the south. For I am not of Hindoo blood. My mother

came from free Iran, and I am also of that race. And here, in this

sleepy indolence, I suffer—I stifle—I die! There! Is it enough? Have I

told thee?”

She stopped, hot and eager with the feeling of her speech, to find

Rai-Khizar staring at her with troubled eyes. He gave her a long and

close scrutiny; and when he spoke it was only to say, in a quiet tone:

“Thou wilt do well to crush this spirit, Ahalya. I cannot make thee a

man;—nor would I if I could. Therefore, being a woman, thou must be

protected as one. Speak of this no more. Nay, listen, and I will tell

thee of our campaign, of the battle on the plain of Dhár, and of these

men of the west that are worthy warriors. Thou knowest, Ahalya, that,

hundreds of seasons ago, there came, over the snow-clad mountains of

the north, a great host, led by one called Mahmoud of Ghazni. They

came, in the name of their one God, to conquer our country; and though

many hundreds of times Indians and Rajputs drove them back, they have

persevered, and are now masters of the north and east. In Lahore, their

kings have ruled for generations; and now a slave sits on the throne of

the new Kingdom of Delhi.[2] And out of Delhi a fresh horde has come

for the conquest of Malwa. Beyond the walls of Dhár we met them in

battle; and, by Indra and Vishnu, we routed them well! I have brought

back in my train the nephew of their leader; and I think it will be

long ere Omar crosses the Vindhyas to get him back!”

“Thou hast brought home the nephew of their leader! What glory for

thee! Is he to be ransomed?”

[2] Aybek, a slave of Mahommad-Ghori, founded the present Kingdom of

Delhi.

“No, by my life! I like the fellow, and I have made him my cup-bearer.

He pleases me with his manner. He is like thee:—rebellious. Why, look

you, on the first night of his captivity he slept in one of my rooms

here—would not go into the house of slaves, and so put me to the blush

for asking a prince to demean himself, that I have granted him a bed in

one of the antechambers near my sleeping-room. Also, yesterday, at the

noon meal, he ceased to fill my cup after the second jar was empty. I

asked him why he failed in his duty, and he answered that he did not

fail, but was, rather, careful of my welfare:—that the gods had made

kings to be examples to their people; and that a drunken king bred

drunkenness in his subjects!”

Ahalya’s eyes shone. “And thou—what didst thou, my lord?”

“I gave the fellow ten lashes for his impertinence. But I like him, and

I shall keep him in my service.”

“Keep a prince for thy slave, lord?”

“Whoorroo, Ahalya! Thou hast his tongue to-night. Come; I am weary of

talking. Dance for me—the poppy dance, if thou wilt, now we are alone.”

Ahalya rose submissively, and poised herself, while the Rajah lay back

in deep comfort on his pillows. She was a beautiful dancer when she

chose to dance; and she could hum her own music, beating the rhythm

with her feet as she swayed slowly from one posture to another. But

she did not dance the poppy dance to-night. She only made a series of

tableaux that would have delighted the soul of an artist, and which

fully satisfied the eyes of the Rajah. Ahalya circled round him like

some broad-winged bird, moving more and more lightly, becoming more and

more cloudlike to his stilling senses. And presently when, out of her

gauzy mist, the Ranee looked at him, she perceived that his eyes were

closed and that his breath was coming deeply and regularly.

Ahalya experienced a sudden feeling of relief. He slept. His sleep

would wear the night away. She was free to go. Joyously, softly,

swiftly, she passed out of that room and the next; but in the

antechamber beyond she paused. Three or four rooms and a passage lay

between her and the zenana. These she appeared to be in no haste to

traverse. Halting indecisively, she stood looking about her as if in

search of something—or some one; and her brow was drawn in meditation.

Then, all at once, she started, not in the direction of her apartments,

but through another door that led off into a long range of rooms,

little used, in one of which the captive slave of Rai-Khizar-Pál had

had the audacity to sleep on the first night of his coming to Mandu;

and the use of which the lenient Rajah had afterward granted him. As

she continued on her way, Ahalya’s excitement and her speed increased

until she was fairly running along, her eyes, meantime, swiftly

examining each room as soon as she entered it. At last, when her breath

had become panting, and her color unnaturally brilliant; when, as it

would seem, she began to realize what she was doing, she reached, by

her devious route, the antechamber to the zenana, where an eunuch stood

on guard. And he stared in amazement at her flushed and frowning face

as she hurried past him into her voluntary captivity.

It was as well that the Ranee Ahalya sought her sleep that night

without having peered out of her screened windows into the inner court;

for had she done so, she might have found by accident that which she

had unsuccessfully sought. For, till a very late hour that night, Fidá,

the slave, risking his life, crouched in the shadow of the fountain of

that court, watching, with burning eyes, the glow of a single lamp that

shone in the Lady Ahalya’s rooms: a lamp which, though he knew it not,

was never extinguished. And so, when weariness finally overcame him, he

crept away without learning whether or not the lady of his dreams was

sleeping behind her imprisoning walls.

CHAPTER IV

THE ASRA RUBY

It was some time past midnight when Fidá, baffled and exhausted,

returned to his antechamber, and, wrapping himself in his white cloak,

lay down on the floor. Weary as he was, he could not sleep at once, but

lay for a little while thinking profitlessly on what he had done. Fate

had twice given him that which he had not sought. But now, trying to

circumvent Fate, he had been doubly defeated; for, had he been where

he should that evening, Ahalya, in her reckless search, must have

come upon him. This, happily, he did not know; but he was none the

less unrighteously angry at his failure to find out something, even

the smallest, of her habits. _Her_ habits! Reason, which he had

persistently smothered, rose up against him, and began to lay before

him certain grim truths. This woman, of whom his nearly every waking

thought was now composed, was a Ranee—a queen, a wife. To her he was

an outcast, and yet he had dared to lift his thoughts to her. Fool

that he was, he had got himself into a state men called love! What

love could be more unholy than his? She was a Ranee. But, argued his

other self, he was himself a prince by birth, and the actual head of

a great race. Nevertheless, this race of his was a strangely unhappy

one; and he, Fidá, had, all his life till now, persistently avoided

women; for to his family women were fatal. He had taken the highest

pride in his reputation for coldness, for chastity, for temperance.

At sixteen he had left Yemen to put himself under the guardianship of

his uncle,—a power at the court of Delhi; and, upon his departure for

India, he had vowed lifelong devotion to the extension of the Prophet’s

power; and had determined to allow no human temptation to conquer him.

This present matter, however, he protested, was no temptation. It was

even most unlikely that he should see the woman again, considering the

difference in their present stations. Nevertheless, after a little more

chaotic thinking, Fidá took from a certain secure hiding-place in his

vestment a tiny golden box, scarcely half an inch square, fastened by a

minute spring. Without opening it, he clasped this box closely to his

breast; and, as if it held some magic power, under its pressure he grew

calm again, his brain ceased to throb, sleep stole upon him, and little

by little his hold on it relaxed, till at last his hand fell from his

breast and his treasure rolled upon the floor.

Fidá’s awakening was sudden. The tones of a loud voice, calling

confusedly, mingled themselves with his dreams. Then he sprang to his

feet to find the Rajah standing over him, in a most dishevelled state,

crying to him to bring drinking-water, instantly. And Fidá, startled

and sleepy, hurried away on his errand.

When he returned with the desired drink, he found his master in his

bedroom, surrounded by half a dozen attendants, each ministering to him

in some way. Way was made with alacrity for the cup-bearer, however;

for Rai-Khizar greeted the appearance of water with a positive roar of

eagerness. After three brimming gobletfuls had been quaffed without

pause, the Rajah gave a great sigh and sank back on his cushions. “By

the fingers of Ushas,” said he, “that is the best liquor ever brought

me! Fidá, thou abstainer, where learned thy people their wisdom?—Now I

bathe. Let a meal be ready when I return, and summon Lord Ragunáth to

eat with me. Sacharman, go rouse him. Thou, Asra, say thy prayers, and

then come and wait at my table. Away! Out of my sight!”

There was a general scurrying, in the midst of which Rai-Khizar,

restored to tranquillity, walked away to his bath, leaving the room

free for other slaves to prepare in it the morning meal. In half an

hour, when the King reappeared, all was in readiness, and Fidá stood

alone behind his master’s seat. The Rajah seated himself at once; but,

not greatly disposed toward food, sat waiting for Ragunáth before

beginning his meal. The official did not long delay, though he made his

appearance in no way hurriedly. He was carefully dressed, fresh-colored

and smiling; and in his hand he carried a tiny, golden box. Fidá

perceived it at once, and his heart throbbed with anxiety, but he

did not speak. Greetings passed between Rajah and minister, and then

Ragunáth took his place opposite Rai-Khizar, and laid Fidá’s box on the

low brass table in front of him.

“This was upon the floor in the second antechamber,” he observed.

The Rajah took it up and examined it, Fidá still silently watching. For

a moment Rai-Khizar seemed to consider. Then, suddenly turning to his

slave, he exclaimed: “’Tis thine, Asra! I remember they found it on

thee in my tent in the plain of Dhár, and returned it to thee again, it

being a charm of thy god.”

“Yes, it is mine, O King.”

Rai-Khizar-Pál examined it further, with curiosity. “Doth the box open?

What is its power?” he asked.

“It contains a charm, great Rajah, the charm of my race.”

“Show us this charm,” demanded the master, handing the box to his slave.

Fidá’s hand closed upon it with visible eagerness; but he was very

loath to open it. However, there was no choice. Touching the delicate

spring, that was almost undiscoverable, the golden lid flew open, and

Fidá turned the box upward on his palm. When he lifted it, there lay

in his hand a stone, red and brilliant: a ruby, as magnificent a gem

as the Rajah had ever looked on. It was cut and polished, and from its

prismatic sides shone an inward fire of palest crimson. This stone Fidá

placed in the Rajah’s hand, who received it with an exclamation of

wonder.

“Whoorroo! There is not, in all Mandu, a gem so wonderful! Thy family,

Asra, must be powerful indeed! Come, as the price of keeping thy

treasure, relate to us its merits as a charm, and how it came to be

thine.”

Fidá was deeply troubled. He gazed at Ragunáth, who, forgetting

himself, was leaning over the tray, his eyes fixed—was it

hungrily?—upon that gleaming stone. There was an eagerness in the

clear-cut face that was too easy to read; and as he watched, Fidá saw

the man’s hands fairly tremble for the gem. Rai-Khizar-Pál was wholly

different. His face, as he examined the stone, expressed pleasure; but

there was not a hint of avarice in his large, quiet eyes. After three

or four minutes of hesitation and inward struggle on the part of Fidá,

the King exclaimed:

“Thy tale, Fidá! Or wouldst really lose the jewel to me?”

“The jewel,” cut in Ragunáth, in a smooth, quiet voice, “belongs by

right of war to the Rajah. No slave should possess such a fortune as

this.”

“Ah, good counsellor, there thou’rt wrong. This Mohammedan is not a

Sudra. Moreover, he does not carry the ruby as riches, but for a reason

that we wait to hear. Come, Fidá, speak!”

The King laid the ruby on the tray before him, and began to eat,

slowly. At the same time Fidá, overpressed, entered upon his tale;

and during the whole of the recital his eyes never once rested on the

jewel, but were fixed unwinkingly on Ragunáth’s æsthetic profile.

“O conqueror, the story of this jewel that you bid me tell is stranger

than you think. ’Tis such a story as is scarcely to be found outside of

fairy lore. And yet I stand here to prove that it is true.

“Know that my race, the Asra, are an ancient and powerful family, that

have dwelt for many centuries in Yemen, the holy land. We are of high

descent, and among us, at the time of the Hejira, was a follower of

Mohammad, afterward one of the writers of the Koran, a venerable and a

holy man, accounted a sage: by name, Hussen el-Asra. At the same time

there lived in Mecca the high and holy Osman, compiler of the Koran,

worshipped throughout the city as a saint. Now Hussen had a son, a

young man of great beauty of face and form, and of highly virtuous

mind, called Abdullah. One day this young man, by an unhappy accident,

chanced to see a maiden, the daughter of a wealthy nobleman of Mecca,

Said ibn-Alnas; and in the first sight of her he loved the maiden, and,

going to her father, asked her hand in marriage. Said received Abdullah

in the most courteous manner, but was distressed by the object of his

visit, in that his daughter had already a suitor in old Osman, who,

though four times married to virtuous women, had become so enamored

of the beautiful Zenora that he purposed divorcing himself of one of

his wives in order to marry her. Abdullah, however, was unmarried;

and the venerable Said preferred to make his child the first wife of

an honorable man, to bringing dishonor on the head of another woman

by marrying her to Osman. Zenora, likewise, when the matter was laid

before her, as is our custom with our women, begged earnestly to become

the wife of the younger man, whom she already loved. Thereupon, before

Osman was made aware of the matter, Zenora and Abdullah were safely

married, and she had taken up her abode in the house of her husband and

her husband’s father.

“When news of this wedding was brought to the saint Osman, he fell

into a violent rage of despair. Praying to the Prophet for vengeance,

the Prophet listened to his prayer, and put into his mouth a curse.

And so Osman went into the market-place and waited; and when Abdullah

came thither, Osman went up to him and cursed him and his love, and

the loves of his children and his children’s children, that whosoever

of his race should truly love a woman should die of it, having by her

no more than one son. And though an Asra should, in his heart, cherish

love for a woman and not marry her, the curse should yet be upon him,

till in a short time their whole race should perish from the face of

the earth.”

“It was an unholy curse,” observed the Rajah, deeply interested. And

Fidá rejoined:

“So thought all that heard it; and no man looked for it to come to

pass. Yet it happened that Abdullah and Zenora had not been wedded a

month when the husband sickened. Though he grew constantly worse, he

but clung the more to his wife, and she to him, until it seemed that

he must surely die. Then, in her bitterness and grief, Zenora called

upon her father and her husband’s father for aid; and the nobleman

and the learned and holy one took counsel together, and prayed to

Allah and the Archangels. And their prayer was answered. A voice from

heaven addressed them, bidding Said bring forth the richest treasure

of his house, and then Hussen to bless it and then take it to Abdullah

for a charm against the evil of the curse; and, while he carried it,

it would give him health and bring him children. So Said went and

got this ruby, which was renowned throughout Yemen for its size and

perfection. And Hussen, performing his part of the task, blessed the

gem and consecrated it to Allah, and took it to his son, who by it was

miraculously restored to health. Abdullah and Zenora lived happily,

and had many daughters, but only one son, to whom the ruby was given

at his father’s death, with the word that it should descend in time to

his first-born, and so on down. In time it was found that only those

children born of deep and lasting love were subject to the curse; but

upon these, since the time of Abdullah and Osman, the evil has never

failed to take effect when the ruby is not worn as a protective charm.

It was my father’s, and given me by him according to the custom;

wherefore my uncle, though he married and has a son, has devoted his

life to pursuits of war and hunting, knowing that the gentler pleasures

of life are not for him.”

“And hast thou never put thy stone to the test? Hast never loved?”

inquired Ragunáth, with a faintly curling smile.

“No,” answered Fidá, shortly. But the Rajah broke in:

“By Surya, ’tis a tale worth the price of the gem! Take it, Asra; and

I think it were well for thee to keep it idle while thou remainest in

this palace.”

Fidá gave a little, imperceptible start, and stared quickly into his

conqueror’s face. There was nothing to be read in it; and surely it was

impossible that the words could have had any under-meaning. Greatly

relieved at receiving back his treasure, the Asra replaced it in its

box, which he fastened again in his garment. As he did this he was

aware that Ragunáth’s eyes were still upon him; but Ragunáth’s glances

had annoyed him so often, that he failed especially to note this. He

had recovered his jewel; and now the meal was coming to an end and for

an hour he would be released from duty.

When he was again summoned to the Rajah’s side, it was in the great

audience hall, where Rai-Khizar-Pál officiated in his judicial state.

The Mohammedan was not a little interested in the proceedings of the

long morning; and his respect for the ability of his master increased

not a little as he watched him settle, one after another, with ease,

rapidity, and remarkable insight, the great number of quarrels and

suits brought before him by his subjects. At the second hour after

noon, however, the court rose, and those natives whose cases had

not come up that day were told to return on the morrow; whereupon

they got up, without comment, from where they had been sitting in

rows around the wall, and departed to their various pursuits. The

Rajah, accompanied by Manava, retired to eat his second meal, which

Fidá served. When it was over, he stood waiting to be dismissed; for

it was the time of day when Rai-Khizar usually slept and the slave

was accustomed to enjoy a period of idleness. Left alone with the

captive, however, the King turned to him, and, after a few moments’

consideration, said gravely:

“Asra, I have said that I would not ransom thee; liking too well thy

presence and thy service. Yet this I have in my heart reconsidered

until, though I shall grieve to let thee go, I am willing to send

envoys to thy uncle to treat for thy ransom. Doth this rejoice thee?”

Fidá fell upon one knee and pressed the Rajah’s hand to his head.

“Thanks to my lord!” said he, in a voice muffled with emotion.

“Ah, thou’lt be glad to be in thine own estate again! I send the envoys

forth to-day. It should be not more than three weeks ere thy freedom

cometh. On my life, I shall be loath to part with thee. But now I can

keep thee no longer in this servant’s garb. Thou shalt be habited like

a prince again, and wait here, my guest, till thou goest forth.”

“Let the King pardon my boldness. What is the ransom thou wouldst free

me for?”

“Far less than thou art worth, my Asra: five thousand pieces of copper,

jewels to the worth of an hundred cows, and the oath that the Rajah of

Mandu and the mighty Aybek of Delhi be henceforth as brothers.”

Fidá had risen to his feet; but he stood with his head so bent that the

Rajah could not see his face. “I have a favor to ask my lord,” he said,

still in the muffled tone that could not be interpreted.

“Speak.”

“Will the Rajah permit that, till the time of my freedom, I may remain

as I am now:—the cup-bearer of my lord?”

“What! Art not a prince? Wouldst thou remain a slave?”

“I asked a favor of my lord.”

“Then it is granted, Asra. But, by the bolt of Indra, I understand

thee not!” And, displeased with his captive’s request, he got up and

strode out of the room. Fidá stood there alone, staring at the floor,

with a curling, sorrowful smile on his lips, and a deep melancholy

in his eyes. For Fidá knew his race well; and he was perfectly aware

that, though an army of twenty thousand Mohammedans might storm the

plateau of Mandu for the simple purpose of taking him out of captivity,

yet they would never pay one-half of the ransom demanded; and, should

they take the oath of brotherhood with an infidel, it would be for the

purpose of plundering him at the first opportunity. Entertaining, then,

from the first, no false hope of freedom, Fidá preferred remaining in

his present state as personal servant of a king, to mutilation and

degradation when the answer that his uncle would send should reach the

ears of Rai-Khizar-Pál. Understanding all this, and having the courage

to face it from the first, Fidá was none the less bitter at heart at

the thought of it. And it was with dragging steps and a darkened face

that he finally set off toward the house of slaves.

There, as he had hoped, he found Ahmed, unoccupied and awake. The

brightness of the boy’s face at sight of his master roused Fidá a

little from his mood, and his eyes had lost their sombreness when,

side by side with his young companion, he left the chattering veranda,

and walked in the direction of the great courtyard. As they went, they

talked in their native tongue, and Ahmed, his boyish spirits always

light, recounted all the gossip of under-life in the great palace which

had not come to Fidá’s ears. The Mohammedan boy had made himself very

popular even among the Indian slaves; and he, like all servants, was

in possession of intimate details of the higher life that would have

astonished and nonplussed certain august personages. His chatter was

innocent enough, however. One of the slave-women in the zenana had had

a quarrel with Bhimeg, the second wife, over a pet paroquet. Purán and

Kanava had had a trial of strength in wrestling, and Kanava had come

out victor. Two of the eunuchs of the zenana were just dead of a fever.

And so on, infinitely, till Fidá had ceased to listen, and was occupied

with his own thoughts, which had suddenly turned in another direction.

After all, did he really wish to leave Mandu? Was there not something

here that could not be taken away; something that was not to be found

in any other country of the earth? Dwelt not the fairest woman in the

world here, in the place of his captivity? Did he really desire to

leave her land even for princely honors? Nay. It might be impossible

that he should see her again; yet always she was here, and here only,

the lady of his secret heart.

The two companions, loitering through the great courtyard, finally

entered the temple room of Vishnu, that began the south wing of the

palace. A curious place, this temple, devoted to that species of

half-formed Hindooism that was at this time the prevailing religion

of India. Into this religion, as into a gigantic pie, had been thrown

pell-mell the doctrines of ancient Vedic worship, the religion of the

great Triad, the worst side of dying Buddhism, and the Philosophies,

insulted by their anthropomorphitic company. This temple room was a

fair specimen of the mingled faiths. On one side, decked and carved

with the symbols of fifty other gods, the images of Vishnu and Lakshmi

reclined upon a throne about which was entwined the great serpent

Sesha, symbol of eternity, in whose coils was caught a golden lotus,

from which Brahma and the demigods had, in the beginning, come forth.

Over the head of Vishnu hung a wooden monkey, representing Hanuman, the

friend of Vishnu; and three or four living members of the chattering

tribe dwelt in the room. Around the three other walls were images of

different gods, all comparatively insignificant, but each with his

priest and a sect, however small, of worshippers. At any hour of the

day, indeed, but especially in the morning and in the evening, there

were to be found from one to twenty worshippers seated on the floor

before the various deities, engaged in performing an Agnihotra or an

Ishti for prosperity and good fortune.

In the dusk of this holy place, lighted by its fires, Fidá and Ahmed

continued their low-voiced talk, which had now turned upon the

long-standing feud between Kasya, chief of the eunuchs, and Kanava, the

slavemaster. Kanava was high in the favor of Ragunáth; but Kasya, heart

and soul devoted to his Rajah, found little favor in Ragunáth’s eyes.

“Kanava,” Ahmed said, “is Ragunáth’s spy; and he can go anywhere in

the palace except into the zenana. Kasya watches his eunuchs, so that

Kanava has never been able to get in there; and I have heard one of the

eunuchs say that he has tried to bribe every one of them to let him in.

They say that Ragunáth is in love with one of the women—”

“What woman?” demanded Fidá, sharply.

“The youngest wife. They call her Ahalya.”

Fidá’s eyes blazed with anger. “Why is not the Rajah told of this?”

“Great Allah! Every one would be killed, I suppose,” returned the boy;

and the subject was dropped.

In the midst of all this gossip Fidá had not told his companion

anything of the chief event of the day:—the matter of his ransom.

And, on reflection, he decided to say nothing about it. Ahmed’s

young buoyancy could never be made to understand Fidá’s own view of

the incident; and he could do nothing but raise hopes that would

not be fulfilled. So, after a while, each returned to his duties,

insensibly lightened at heart by the taste of intimate and affectionate

companionship.

Fidá lay down in his corner, that night, tired out. According to old

habit he slipped his hand inside his tunic and made sure that his

little box was in its place, in a pocket that he had made for it

himself, after his other clothes had been taken from him. Finding his

treasure safe, he offered up a prayer, wondered where his uncle slept

that night, still more wondered whether the Lady Ahalya was asleep,

and, with her name on his lips, drifted off into unconsciousness.

He was awakened by the sense that some one was bending over him. Next

he felt the lightest touch upon his body. A hand was slipping along him

so softly that only an acute sense could have felt it. Then Fidá opened

his eyes. Ten brown, sinewy fingers were working at his sash. Quietly

the Asra laid his own hands on those of the marauder, and, while the

blood rushed to his heart, gripped them with the strength of a giant.

The intruder gave a soft exclamation; and Fidá found himself looking

into the eyes of Kanava.

The gaze continued till the slave-master was beaten. He turned his eyes

away. Then Fidá’s lip curled, and he spoke, his voice soft with scorn.

“Go back, Kanava, and tell thy master that the Asra ruby is not for

him.” And, with a violent gesture, he flung the man away from him as

one would fling a bag of meal.

Without a word Kanava got up and crept out of the room. After he was

gone again Fidá relaxed, and, curiously enough, found no difficulty in

going back to sleep. Nor did he afterward waste much time in thinking

of the mortal enemy he had made by that night’s work.

CHAPTER V

POPPIES

On the night after the reconciliation with her husband, the night also

after her search for a slave in the palace, the Lady Ahalya went to bed

in a temper, without having roused Neila, her maid. During the night,

while she slept, some subtle change surely worked upon the brain and

heart of the Ranee; for she herself, and Neila too, knew afterward that

this night was, with her, the beginning and the end of all things. For

the next three or four days Neila’s life was made miserable; but Ahalya

did not attempt to account even to herself for the freaks, moods, and

whims which changed with such rapidity that, before human power could

gratify one, the next had made the work all to do over again. Not for

an entire week did the long-suffering attendant get an inkling of what

was really the trouble; and then she went into a state of consternation

that Ahalya made no attempt to lessen. For the Ranee’s secret mind was

running continually now, perhaps without her own volition, on the most

dangerous of topics:—how she might see the Asra again. This was not a

matter so absolutely impossible as Fidá deemed it. Life in the Indian

zenanas was not quite that of the harems of Arabia; though, as Ragunáth

knew, this one was certainly well guarded. By degrees, however, Ahalya

approached her end. How it came about, who could say? But Neila found

herself presently acting in the character of a spy. This eunuch and

that she questioned; now and then she ventured into the great courtyard

or, more warily, into the palace itself: observing, listening, asking a

question of one slave or another, till Fidá’s daily habits had become

familiar to her. Then, after so much patience, opportunity arrived. One

afternoon at the very end of the month, after the Rajah had partaken of

his afternoon meal and gone to rest, Neila herself saw the slave Fidá

set out alone into the fields, along the old temple road. This incident

being duly reported to her mistress, Ahalya’s face lighted like a

child’s.

“I, too, am going to walk on the temple road! Yes, yes, Neila, I am

going! Seek not to detain me. I am going to gather the late poppies in

the temple field to make a rouge for my face. Come, prepare me!”

The unhappy Neila protested violently, all her courage failing.

Gradually she had been drawn into Ahalya’s madness; but now, brought

face to face with possible consequences, she rebelled. There was a

scene between her and her mistress such as had never been known before.

But while Neila wept on the border of hysterics, Ahalya, the power of

her great malady holding her above such things, remained dry-eyed,

firm, commanding. What wonder that Neila in the end submitted?

Nevertheless, one thing the maid insisted on. She and Kasya must

follow their lady, as indeed many times before they had followed her

unconventional rambles; or Ahalya should leave the zenana only over

her, Neila’s, body.

Twenty minutes later the three set out along the temple road, Neila

bearing with her certain fiercely given instructions that had caused

her heart to grow leaden in her breast. Kasya, as they proceeded,

wondered more and more about the relations between his mistress and her

maiden; for Ahalya was walking with a rapidity that sent the blood into

her cheeks and her heart pounding; while the traces of tears on the

other’s face were fresh enough to denote some unusual incident before

the expedition. A little more and his suspicions, ever ready because

ever needed, would have been aroused. But, at this juncture, Fate, more

powerful even than Love, stepped in and took command of the day. The

three had not proceeded half a mile from the palace when there came

running to them a little slave-boy, who, halting beside Kasya, spoke

a few rapid words in his ear that turned the eunuch’s mind from all

thought of the Lady Ahalya and her walk. The Ranee Malati, it seemed,

had called for her son to be brought to her; and the young Bhavani, the

most important person in Mandu after the Rajah, was not to be found.

For a moment or two Kasya hesitated. He had no choice but to go.

“I beseech the pardon of the Lady Ahalya. I must return to the zenana.”

Ahalya’s face brightened. “Go then,” said she.

“I will send after thee another of the eunuchs.”

“It is not necessary.”

“Lady—thy lord would be angry. I dare not—”

“Then send Churi after us; but let him not intrude on me.” And Ahalya,

now a little angry, started on again, Neila perforce following her.

Kasya, troubled in his mind, turned away, and set off at a run for the

palace, nor did he neglect to despatch Churi, “the doctor,” Ahalya’s

favorite slave, after the errant Ranee. But Churi, who was more an

individual than a slave, had ideas of his own about Ahalya, and did not

hurry to follow her. He arrived, indeed, at the temple ruin, to find

Neila stationed at its entrance as if on guard. And he had the immense

self-restraint to join her without asking any questions.

Fidá, in the meantime, unconscious of the little sensation he was

stirring up, was occupied in making an exploration of one corner of

the plateau. As soon as the Rajah dismissed him he had started off by

himself, having a great desire for solitude in which to meditate on a

situation that was becoming every day more galling to him. Two weeks

had passed since the departure of the embassy to his uncle’s camp;

and he found himself gradually beginning to hope against hope that

he would, after all, be rescued from his slavery. For this captivity

which, for a few days, had been tinged with the glamour of adventure

and romance, had now become the most irksome, the most unendurable of

degradations. He walked for a long time, thinking deeply, paying little

heed to his way till the scene became too remarkable to go unnoticed.

He was two miles away from the palace when the road, which, some

distance back, had turned sharply to the left, ran out of the flat,

cultivated fields, and entered a wood which shortly became a little

jungle, the road being cut through the heaviest undergrowth of bushes,

trees, and sinuous vines. Around him, monkeys and paroquets chattered

and screamed. The foliage was brilliant as with a second summer; for

with autumn and the first suggestion of the second rains, summer leaps

up again over all the northwest country; and Fidá was gazing about

him delighted with the color and the life, the trouble of his heart

banished by the beauty of nature, when suddenly his road turned again,

and—ended.

Before him, to the precipitous edge of the plateau, stretched a

naturally clear space, in the centre of which stood a giant building,

gone all to ruin. Its huge sandstone blocks were black with age and

green with moss and growing plants. Its veranda and great doors were

open to the daylight; and within, through openings in the roof,

bright sunlight shone. The architecture was crude and heavy; but Fidá

recognized, without difficulty, the style of the oldest Buddhism. And

he divined correctly the history of this building, which he had started

out to find: that it had once been a Vihara, later converted to the

uses of Surya, one of the Brahman gods.

The place was, like the religion it still symbolized, a magnificent

ruin. And its setting was worthy of it; for the fields on either side

were overrun with flaming poppies, blooming for the second time in the

year, and filling the whole air with the somnolence of their burden

of opium. Beyond the fields, a fitting frame for the picture, the

jungle commenced again: a high wall of subdued color, green and brown,

splashed with the scarlet of the wild-cotton flowers. Fidá, halting

in wonder, felt his heart suddenly grow light. Here were poppies—her

flowers. It was a propitious omen. In his trouble, he had come upon a

place devoted to her symbols. Was it a sign to him to remain in Mandu,

hoping, however vainly, sometime to find a way to her? Smiling a little

at the Indian superstition of his thoughts, he moved on, rambled for

a time round the rock-strewn rooms within the temple, and finally out

into the fields, where the flowers took effect on him again and set his

mind running hotly upon Ahalya, the one woman of his world.

An hour had passed since he left the palace, and he knew that in a

little time he must turn his steps again toward slavery. This thought

intensified the delight of lingering here, held by the fascination of

the wild flowers. And it was now, at the most beautiful hour, in this

enchanted spot, that she herself, Ahalya, came to him. Fidá saw two

figures appear from the trees by the temple. Both were women. He got to

his feet, trembling a little. Only one was advancing:—dressed all in

white, the head-veil thrown back from her face, under one arm a broad,

flat basket. Yes; it was Ahalya. Fidá perceived that he was neither

blind nor mad. She, the Ranee, was here, with him. Hesitatingly he

advanced toward her, two or three steps, and their eyes met.

Ahalya crimsoned violently; and seeing this, Fidá grew bold. Not

thinking of the enormity of his daring, with only the memory of two

empty weeks upon him, he went straight toward her, and when he was at

her side began, passionately: “Most beautiful of women! Lotus-lidded!

Lily-faced! I behold thee, and thou art not a dream!” And then abruptly

he paused, overcome by the situation.

Ahalya turned to look behind her, and Fidá’s eyes followed hers.

Churi had arrived at the ruin, but he and Neila stood leaning against

a fallen stone, their backs to the poppy-field, evidently talking

together. The Ranee, seeing herself safe enough, became confused; and,

still half turned away from the slave, murmured, with an embarrassed

manner:

“I came—to gather poppies. Did my lord send you hither?”

“Thy lord—sleeps,” muttered Fidá.

Ahalya gave a nervous start. Now that she had attained her end, the

Ranee began to wish herself a thousand miles away, so confused was she

by the presence of this man. Fidá saw how her hands trembled; and,

emboldened by the flush of her half-averted cheek, his heart beating

furiously with a sudden hope, he took her by the hand and gently,

persuasively, led her to the stone from which he had just risen. Here,

though she would have protested, he caused her to sit down. “I must

have the poppies,” she found courage to say, lifting up her basket,

and suddenly smiling. “Neila and Churi may come at any moment.” And

she turned again to look at the ruin. This time the two figures had

disappeared entirely.

“I will get poppies for you. Wait.” And, taking the basket, Fidá

darted forward and began plucking the tough-stemmed flowers. In five

minutes the basket was heaping full, though the assortment was anything

but select. But while he worked, his back turned to Ahalya, all his

new-born audacity suddenly ran out at his finger-tips, and when he

returned to her with the narcotic burden, his eyes were fixed on the

ground, and he was more confused than she. He laid the basket at her

feet, and then stood, like a culprit, before her.

“Let the Ranee pardon me!” he whispered.

“Pardon thee?” she asked, wondering.

“Ah, I have dared to lift my eyes to thee, and now—and now—” his voice,

unpent, rang clear.

“And now,” she breathed, most softly.

“Now,” his heart throbbed, “I cannot lower them again!”

Her eyes lifted themselves to his, and she smiled at him, half shyly,

half with a beautiful pride. Seeing that smile, Fidá’s senses deserted

him. He fell upon his knees before her, and lifted up his hands, crying:

“Ahalya! I love you! I love you! I love you!”

The princess shivered, half in terror, half in—something else. But she

could not speak. Slowly, therefore, the fire died out of Fidá’s face.

His dark head, bound with its slave’s circlet, drooped lower and lower,

till at length it rested on a stone at the edge of her silken garment,

and his face was buried in his arms. So they remained for a long time,

taking no account of the moments as they passed, neither of them happy,

both afraid of what they had done, of the astonishing betrayal. Fidá

was sick and shaken with his inward tumult. Ahalya sat in a rigid calm,

thinking, after a desultory fashion, of many ordinary things that now

seemed infinitely far removed from her. The bitter weariness of her

life had suddenly disappeared; but that which replaced it, she could

not just now consider. The revolution was too absolute. How should she

readjust herself so soon? Yet, since they were here together, free and

alone, she wished to speak; and so, in a sweet, monotonous tone, she

gave voice to many fragments that were in both their minds.

“I love you. Is it not right, and holy? I love young things, and youth,

and beauty. Krishna and Radha loved thus. Who knows how it comes? I

loved you by the well. Your eyes shone into mine, and you smiled at

me, and you were not afraid. I loved to think of you, a captive, and a

prince. Most of all I love you here, because, Fidá—because—ah, look!”

At the change in her voice the slave roused himself, as one wakes, with

an effort, from some wondrous dream. Ahalya also had risen, and was

staring fearfully at a figure that approached them out of the shadow of

the trees.

“Ragunáth!” muttered Fidá. “Name of the prophet! how comes he here?”

“Where I am, there he is also,” murmured the Ranee. “Ah, Fidá, run,

run, and bring Neila and Churi! I fear this man. He must not see you.”

“He has already seen me. I cannot go.”

This much they had time to say, as the Rajah’s counsellor came slowly

toward them, his arms folded across his breast, his eyes aflame with

angry suspicion. Ahalya, trembling though she was, still straightened

up to receive him, and Fidá fell slightly behind her, to one side, as

became a slave. But there was, in his attitude, small suggestion of

respect for him who approached. At a little distance Ragunáth halted

and looked at them:—looked as only he could look, from one to the other

and back again. To-day, however, his lips did not smile, but wore the

hard line of jealousy. Under this gaze Ahalya quivered anew; and Fidá

heard her catch her breath. Instinctively he stepped forward. But, just

at that moment, Ragunáth raised his upper lip a little off his teeth,

and spoke:

“The Lady Ahalya has found a new slave.”

Ahalya turned white, but remained silent. Fidá gazed steadily and

scornfully at the eavesdropper, who, after waiting a moment, said again:

“Is there a new law of the Lord Rajah’s, that his slaves shall walk

with his women—picking poppies, in the fields?”

Ahalya, angered beyond her dread, opened her lips to speak; but Fidá

was before her.

“The Lady Ahalya, attended by Churi, and Neila, her woman, came to this

field to gather poppies. I, unknowing, was here before her. When the

Lady Ahalya perceived me, she allowed me to pluck the flowers for her

and to lay them at her feet.”

“Churi and the woman, then,—am I blinded? I do not see them here,” and

he peered about the field like a man looking for a lost gem.

Fidá’s hands itched for his throat; but now, suddenly, Ahalya assumed

the height of her position, and, actually stamping her foot with

outraged dignity, cried: “Does Lord Ragunáth presume—_dare_—to

doubt my word? I say that Neila and Churi brought me hither; and,

coming here, we found this trusted slave of my lord, whom I commanded

to pluck the poppies for me. But my Lord Ragunáth—came he hither also

to get flowers to make a rouge for his face?” The last words she all

but spat at him.

Ragunáth was silenced, but very far from being suppressed. Indeed, the

slight lifting of his eyebrows and the shrugging of his shoulders spoke

as words could not speak; and Fidá was perilously near an outbreak.

At this juncture, however, by intervention of a dilatory providence,

Neila, and with her Churi, made their appearance from the temple. At

sight of three figures in the field where they had thought to find

one, or, at worst, but two, they came hurriedly forward to their lady,

who stood awaiting them in silence. Ragunáth’s eyes were now fixed

upon the face of Churi, who endured the look very well; for in his

own way he was much interested in the situation. No words passed till

Ahalya, indicating her slaves with a gesture, said icily: “Attend me.”

And then, without looking again at the minister, but with the barest,

fleeting glance at Fidá, she moved away toward the road, and was

presently lost to sight among the trees near the ruin.

The Arab and the Hindoo were left alone, face to face. Fidá’s eyes were

fixed unwinkingly on Ragunáth’s. On the counsellor’s lips a half-smile

hovered, and his expression had in it more of mockery than anger. When

Ahalya was quite out of sight, he spoke, slowly:

“So—slave. Art thou prepared to greet thy god in death?”

Now Fidá’s lip curled. “May Allah receive me at the appointed time,”

said he.

“That time is near.”

“Nay, Lord Ragunáth.”

“‘Nay’? ‘Nay’? Knowest thou not that Rai-Khizar-Pál, hearing of this

adventure of thine, will not leave thee an hour alive?”

“Even that I do not know, Ragunáth. But, were it true, still, who shall

tell the Rajah of the incident of the day?”

“I, dog, shall tell him.”

“Am I indeed a dog? Be it so, I am a dog that speaks. And I am not a

thief.—Does thy master know thy taste in rubies, lord?”

Ragunáth flushed scarlet. “Thou speakest like a madman!”

“Nay, it is rather thou that art mad. Thou hast walked on dangerous

ground before, thou traitor to honor; but never so near destruction as

now. Hast thou told thy master of thy visit to the zenana courtyard

on the day of the great sacrifice? Did he despatch thee to-day to the

poppy field? Hath he ever trusted the honor of his lady in _thy_

hand? Oh, though thou couldst hush the mouths of all the eunuchs in the

zenana, the story of thy bribes and treachery would be shouted aloud by

every slave in Mandu.—Thus, the Lord Ragunáth is the madman.—A slave

picks poppies in the field. A slave is near a lady when Ragunáth would

speak with her. The slave has eyes, ears, and a tongue. Moreover, this

slave understands honor, for he was born a prince. Speak, then, to the

Rajah concerning this day’s incident. It were fitting he should know—”

“Be silent, man!”

“It seems I am become a man!”

“Be silent,—or thou diest.”

Fidá shrugged, but let the threat go. “_If_ I am silent, then?” he

asked.

“If thou art silent, fool,” Ragunáth made an effort, “if thou art

silent, I will let time and thine own folly betray thee; for it is not

fitting that I should soil myself with the affairs of infidels and

slaves.”

And this last insult also, though he was obviously in the position to

command, Fidá passed over. Was it because he knew that, for all his

bravado, he was not himself innocent of treachery to his conqueror?

CHAPTER VI

CHURI

Fidá had lived in the palace of Mandu for nearly a month before he had

his first glimpse of one of the most important persons in the lower

stratum of its life, a man with whom he was later to become but too

familiar:—Churi, the eunuch. They beheld each other first, distantly,

in the poppy field. On the evening of that same day they met again.

It was about sunset, and Fidá was at the well in front of the house

of slaves, washing out certain of the Rajah’s drinking vessels, when

he became aware of a white-robed figure standing at his side, and,

turning, gave a sudden start to find himself gazing into a pair of eyes

one of which was of a lustrous brown, the other of a pale, greenish

hue. The owner of the eyes smiled slightly; and then Fidá recalled

Ahmed’s description of the doctor, he whose position ranked next to

that of Kasya among the guardians of the zenana.

“Thou art Churi,” observed Fidá, wondering if the man had seen him

start.

Churi nodded, and took thoughtful survey of the Mohammedan. During this

look Fidá felt, uncomfortably, that his secret soul had been penetrated

by those singular eyes. Churi’s words, however, when he spoke again,

were simple enough: “Did Ragunáth trouble thee to-day?”

Fidá smiled. “Nay. Why dost thou ask?”

“His face boded thee no good when I saw it. He is a man scrupling not

to lie.”

“Have I lived a month in Mandu and know not that?”

Churi chuckled. “Thou hast no need of help?” said he.

“None.”

“Then I will delay thee no longer. Yet remember that no slave in this

palace need have any fear of that mighty counsellor.”

Fidá shrugged. He felt himself suddenly put upon the status of a

servant who discusses the persons whom he serves; and, furthermore,

Churi’s words seemed to dispel the secret satisfaction he had felt in

having outwitted Ragunáth that afternoon. Even these thoughts it is

possible that Churi robbed him of; for, as the latter turned away, the

smile was still upon his lips; nor did it wholly fade as he went back

to his quarters, which were at the other end of the palace, beyond the

zenana wing.

In his own sphere, Churi was a privileged person, commanding a respect

and an interest above that of Kasya, the incorruptible. Like Kasya,

Churi had a room of his own; though he by no means always occupied it

alone. So great was his skill in medicine and surgery that he took the

place of first official physician in the palace, though he had had

many rivals for the place, and the Rajah was still obliged to employ a

corps of priests who strove, by means of spells and charms, to prove

their methods superior to those of the eunuch with his herbs, simples,

and tourniquets. Churi’s opponents troubled him little, however. He

appreciated his gift; and generally cared for the sick among the slaves

and eunuchs in his own room. Two of his fellows had, in spite of his

care, recently died there of the malignant fever so common at this

season of the year. And to-night, having no desire to eat alone, Churi

took his evening meal of millet and ghee with the other eunuchs in

the common room. While he was still there, chatting with a companion

or two, Kasya invaded the apartment, evidently in search of some one;

and, finding Churi, seized upon him, and drew him back to his own room,

where they could be alone. As they went, Churi broke silence:

“The young lord was safely found to-day?”

They were out of possible ear-shot before Kasya answered: “Too safely.

He was in the rooms of Ragunáth. But my lord himself was not there.

Kanava had the child, and I do not understand the alarm. Tell me, didst

thou overtake the Ranee before she reached the ruin?”

During this last question Churi had begun to laugh. “Oho! I perceive!

Mine eyes are enlightened!”

“What sayest thou?”

“Oho! The faithful Kasya walks out with the Ranee. My lord councillor

is disappointed, captures the child, amuses him in his rooms with toys,

spreads the alarm that he is lost, brings back the faithful Kasya to

the search, and then goes to join the Ranee in the poppy field! Oho!”

“Ragunáth! He _dared_!”

Churi laughed again. “Dared he not? The Lady Ahalya was in the middle

of the poppy field. Neila and I stood, by command, near the ruin. Then

the councillor appeared. He had come through a path in the little

jungle. At very sight of him the Ranee fairly fled to us, whereupon we

set out again for the palace. Nor have I seen him since.” Churi stopped

rather abruptly, wondering how this ingenious version of the truth had

ever come out of him. Was it worth while to add the important details?

There was no time to consider. Kasya was furious.

“This—this, at last, shall go to the King! This even I cannot

countenance from the man—”

“Not so fast, comrade. What hast thou to carry to the King? Young

Bhavani wanders by accident into Ragunáth’s rooms. My lord himself goes

for a walk. By accident he meets the Ranee Ahalya in the poppy field.

They scarcely speak. She returns home with her woman and me;—my lord

remains there on whatever business is his. Bah, Kasya! The fool is

punished now. Doubt it not. The Ranee can lash a man with her eyes, an

she will; and Ragunáth was not favored to-day. I swear that by Lakshmi.

A turmoil is never the result of wisdom. Let it rest, Kasya.”

Churi was committed in good earnest, now. For his own sake the affair

must not go up to the Rajah.

“I thought—” Kasya bent his brows, “I feared the Ranee did not disdain

him wholly. If you speak truth, however—”

Churi shrugged.

“Then let it pass. In time we shall show him that the Rajah’s will is

done in Mandu.” And, with a sigh, Kasya turned and departed.

Churi’s desire for company had gone, apparently; for he made no move

to return to the common room. For a few moments he stood in his own

doorway, brows drawn, head bent, meditating. Then he turned inside, and

dropped the hanging across the open space, to prevent interruption.

Stretching himself out on an improvised but remarkably comfortable

divan, he gave himself up to a more critical consideration of the drama

that had been revealed to him that afternoon. It was a thing that he

had never dreamed of. A day before, he would not have believed that

he could be so calmly reviewing the situation that evidently existed

between the one thing he cared for in Mandu—Ahalya—and the Mohammedan

captive. If it piqued him that he had had no knowledge of its

beginnings,—he, to whom every intrigue enacted in the palace during the

last ten years had been an open book,—he could console himself with the

reflection that he was still the only one that knew of it at all. But

he wished especially to understand himself with regard to Fidá, toward

whom, as yet, he felt no animosity. Fidá, however, continued to baffle

him. He could come to no satisfactory opinion. His concealment of what

he knew from Kasya, though it had come about accidentally, gave him

little anxiety; for it was perfectly consistent with his usual methods:

those plots and plans and hopes in which he, even he, the eunuch,

constantly indulged.

Doctor Churi was, in fact, a person out of the ordinary. He had been

the child of a Rajput woman and an Arab. For his birth, his mother had

been put to death, and he himself, in his babyhood, sold into slavery.

Before he was even aware of the existence of right and wrong, he had

been made a creature apart from ordinary men. And when he was old

enough to understand this, his soul rose up in revolt. From that time,

his whole nature was warped; and he became an iconoclast in his every

thought. His brain was unquestionably fine. His talent for medicine was

manifested at an early age, when he tried to poison himself with opium,

and was only saved by the quick skill of the doctor in whose charge he

was still living. Under this man’s tuition, he gained his knowledge of

anatomy and the power of herbs. At the age of eighteen he was sold to

Rai-Khizar-Pál, his education having trebled his value. At the time of

the transaction, Churi was made aware of the sum paid for him; and it

was then that his great idea came: which was, by some means to obtain

the equivalent of the amount, and with it buy himself into liberty.

Since that day, twelve years had passed away. Churi was thirty years

old; and the little hoard of copper pieces which he had been able

to store up, was still pitiably small. Meantime his heart had grown

bitter, and his mind had taken to winding through tortuous ways of

perception and imagination. He was known to many evil thoughts, but

to few evil practices. And there was in him a volcanic passion of

humanness kept relentlessly in check, that occasionally betrayed itself

above the surface in some eccentric outburst.

The man led a solitary and loveless existence; yet as all human things

must know some softening of the heart toward some one, so Churi had, by

degrees, come to feel a strong interest, a more than interest, in the

Ranee Ahalya, the universally beloved. She was very different from the

other women in the zenana; and Churi had been first attracted to her

by the quality rarest in women: that quality which she had in marked

degree, and he not at all—disinterestedness. Because she had never had

ends to gain, because she curried favor with none, he gave her the

only genuine devotion that he had ever felt for any one; and, where

her interests were concerned, was accustomed to waive his own. Perhaps

it was this instinct in him that had suggested the lie to Kasya; and

thereby, probably, he saved the life of Fidá. But it was quite for his

own amusement that Churi now lay on his divan considering the incidents

of the afternoon. All the result of these thoughts was, that he decided

to see something of the Asra in the near future, and that the Lady

Ahalya would perhaps bear a little watching also.

Fortune favored Churi’s first decision in a very simple way. Two or

three nights later Fidá, who had not been in the house of slaves

for forty-eight hours, went there to find his young comrade, Ahmed,

lying in one corner of the porch, uncovered to the evil air of night,

and burning with fever. Another slave, also Arabian, stood near by,

regarding the sick boy helplessly. When Fidá appeared, Ahmed, who had

lain with closed eyes, heeding nothing, sat up, stretching out his

hands to his master. Fidá took them tenderly into his own, and was

frightened to feel how hot they were. Wrapping the boy in his cloak, he

bent over him, keeping off the swarm of little flies and insects that

hovered around, and listening with alarm to the boy’s half-delirious

murmurings. Something must be done. He was not to be left in this

state. Surely even slaves were given help. And as he cast about,

anxiously, for means of assistance, he was addressed by one Chakra, a

soldier, who stood looking into the veranda:

“If thou couldst bring Churi to the sick boy, he would not die.”

“Ah! Churi! Where is he?” cried Fidá.

“I will show thee where he lives.”

“Come, then!—Nay, better, I will take the boy to him.”

Ten minutes later the physician, squatting comfortably in the doorway

of his own room, perceived a small group approaching out of the

darkness. First came the soldier, quite subdued by Fidá’s peremptory

manner; and then Fidá himself, with Ahmed in his arms. Churi got up and

went toward them a step or two, peering with his strange eyes.

“Thou, Chakra?” said he.

“I come with a slave who brings you a boy sick of a fever.”

“Oh,” said Churi, recognizing Fidá. “Come into this room.—Is the boy

thy son?” he demanded, sharply, of the Asra.

“Nay, I have no son,” answered Fidá, calmly. “But this boy is my

friend, who followed me into captivity. And he is sick. I fear he is

very sick.”

They were now inside the room, where two lamps burned. Fidá laid his

burden down in a corner, and then, as Ahmed clung to him, sat down

beside the boy, who gave a faint moan of satisfaction. The soldier

had already gone; and Churi, after a moment’s survey of his two

self-invited guests, came over and made a speedy examination. It took

little astuteness to perceive that the boy was dangerously ill, with a

fever that was common enough at that season of the year. When he was

assured of its nature, Churi turned to Fidá, saying:

“Let him remain here. I will care for him. But it is not well that thou

shouldst also stay. Go, then, and fear not.”

Fidá made two or three attempts to release himself from the boy’s hold,

Churi watching him. Then Fidá shook his head. “He will not suffer me to

leave him.”

“I will do it. See.” Churi placed himself immediately in front of the

Asra, and laid his hands, with great gentleness, where those of the

Mohammedan had been. Ahmed, drowsy with fever, did not notice the

change. “Now go, softly,” commanded Churi, in a whisper, and Fidá

obeyed.

Such was the beginning of Ahmed’s sickness. It endured for more than

five weeks, and, but for Churi’s unceasing care and skill, had lasted

scarcely three days. It was, moreover, the beginning of an intimacy

between the eunuch and Fidá, which developed with a rapidity and a

completeness that surprised them both. During the first few days,

when the danger was extreme, no one was allowed to see the sick boy.

But after that Fidá was admitted regularly; and, first for the sake

of Ahmed, then on his own account, he spent three quarters of his

spare time in the sick room. Churi having a private interest in Fidá,

he succeeded in making himself so interesting that the slave, though

suffering doubly from captivity and from hopeless love, was drawn out

of himself by the strength of the other’s personality.

Ahmed’s convalescence was a fruitful period. Churi had returned to the

regular zenana duties, modified when there were any sick whom he must

attend; and so the hours in which he saw the captive were much fewer,

but thereby more prized. Churi early disclosed the fact that he had

Arabian blood in his veins; and Fidá, in a passion of yearning for his

people, made this almost a symbol of brotherhood, and poured out to his

new-found confidant all his life-story, with its fury of battle and its

dulness of peace. Churi studied the young man keenly; for just at this

time pressure was being brought to bear on him from another quarter,

and amazing possibilities began to shape themselves in his imagination.

Ahalya, chafing with impatience, longing, and bitterness, in her pretty

prison-house, had become imprudent, and told him half of what he

already knew.

Churi had high responsibilities when he served the zenana. His duties

during the day were light enough; but by night, his was the task to

fasten every door and window looking out upon the unguarded court

of the zenana; and his night-watch at the inner entrance, in the

antechamber connecting the women’s wing with the palace, was between

the hours of twelve and two. Here was the trust which he had never

betrayed. And here, also, were possibilities which he had never

considered. The problem was before him now, however; for his feeling

for Fidá grew daily stronger. He was beginning to consider things

which, had they been suspected by a single soul in Mandu, would have

sent him, and with him Fidá, on the quickest road to death.

Meantime, weeks had gone by. The autumn rains were at hand, and it

was more than a month since the Rajah’s men had left for the north

on Fidá’s behalf. Daily now their return was looked for; and, with

every twelve hours of delay, Fidá grew more wretched. His mind was

full of fear. It was not at all out of the nature of his uncle to have

murdered the ambassadors for the money they might have with them, or

for any fancied disrespect in their demeanor. Had this thing been done,

Rai-Khizar-Pál must know it ere long, and then even the meagre joys

of captivity would end for him. And at this time Fidá did not want to

die. The existence of Ahalya made slavery more than bearable; for while

he lived in the same building with her, the hope of seeing her again

never quite left him. He loved her. He had told her that he loved her.

That fact never failed to bring exhilaration upon him. Even the hope

of freedom could not reconcile him to the idea of losing her forever.

In his sanguine moments there flitted through his head the wildest

plans:—storming the palace at the head of an army, bearing her forth

in triumph, and carrying her home with him to Yemen, where they should

live together forever in the house of his fathers, in the holy city.

But, in time, these dreams were brought to an end by the return of the

messengers from their long journey. On the night of the twenty-fifth of

October, Fidá lay asleep in the little box of a room that had been made

his own. He had gone to bed early that night, for the Rajah was hunting

in the hills, and his services were dispensed with. It was nearly

midnight when the slave opened his eyes to find a soldier of the guard

standing over him. He started up, and was presently following the man

stupidly through rooms and passages till they had come to the audience

hall, where the Rajah, dressed in dusty hunting-garb, sat on his daïs,

a frown of deepest anger on his brow. In front of him were five men,

worn, dishevelled, heavy with sleep. Save for this little group, the

vast room was empty. The torches flickered, ghost-like, into shadowy

corners. The deep night-stillness was only broken by the rattling of

the soldier’s armor and weapons as he walked.

In his first glance at the scene in the hall Fidá, now fully awake,

recognized the situation. As his guide stood aside, he walked alone to

the foot of the royal divan, and prostrated himself there, kissing the

ground before him, in the deepest reverence a Moslem can do. When he

had risen again, he lifted his eyes to the conqueror’s face and found

the Rajah regarding him solemnly, with something like compassion.

“O King, live forever! Thou hast summoned me.”

“I summoned thee, Fidá ibn-Mahmud ibn-Hassan el-Asra, to hear thine

uncle’s message to me. Thou seest my men are returned.”

Fidá, gone white to the lips, looked into the Rajah’s eyes, and, albeit

his voice was unsteady, said quietly: “Let them speak.”

“Radai Sriyarman, repeat the message of Omar el-Asra.”

The soldier nearest Fidá turned slightly toward him, and began,

speaking as if by rote: “Omar the Mohammedan, answering our demand of

five thousand copper pieces,[3] specified jewels, and treaty of eternal

peace with Mandu as the price of the freedom of Fidá el-Asra, spake

thus: That what was demanded was greater than the value of any man.

That he would give, with the permission of the Lord Aybek of Delhi, the

large price of five hundred dirhems for his nephew; and, we refusing

the offer, he then returned this message to Rai-Khizar-Pál, Maharaj’ of

Mandu: ‘Let the King beware that he touch not one hair of the head of

Prince Fidá. The sword of the great Prophet is ablaze over the land,

and, in a year’s time, all the country from Lahore to the great Ghats

will be under the rule of the faithful. Let Fidá, my nephew, be of

good heart. Let him be assured that any injury to him will be avenged

a thousand-fold upon the people of Mandu, and that the King himself

shall answer for his daring with his life. Thus speaks Omar of the

Asra, a follower of Mohammed, in the name of Allah, the one God, the

compassionate, the merciful.’”

[3] Before the Mohammedan conquest, copper was the standard of

currency in India.

“Thou hearest it! Thou hearest this message of thy kinsman?” shouted

Rai-Khizar, stirred anew to wrath with the rehearing of the insolent

message.

“Ah! Dost thou not perceive? My uncle desires my death—longs for my

death, that he may know himself the head of his race!” Fidá cried,

in an agony of bitterness. Then, while the Rajah gazed down upon him

in astonishment, the slave once more fell upon his face before the

conqueror: “O King, live forever! Let the King show mercy to his slave!

Let him remember how I refused to assume the state of the ransomed

when the messengers left Mandu. Let Rai-Khizar-Pál remember that I am

his slave, defenceless. Let him show himself more merciful than my own

people!”

Fidá pled passionately, scarce knowing why it was that life had

suddenly become so precious to him. To the surprise of the soldiers,

and, perhaps, to his own, his words served. The Rajah sat silent for

some moments, his pride and anger struggling with his sense of justice.

In the end the good triumphed. His frown softened, and he rose to his

feet, saying:

“Thou shalt live, then, Asra, by my mercy. Return to thy kennel! But,

by Indra, the Mohammedan hath not yet seen the last of Rai-Khizar-Pál!”

Fidá, scarcely believing in his own deliverance, scarcely able to grasp

the scene that had just passed, stumbled from the room, and returned

to the place that the King had called his kennel. All that night he

tossed and turned on his uneasy bed, sleeping fitfully, glad when he

woke out of his dreams. Relief at his scarce-hoped-for escape for a

time prevented his facing the future. But at last he began to realize

the fact that the hope, so slight and so desperately clung to, of

release, was gone: that henceforth he faced a life of unremitting toil,

of thankless servitude. Years—centuries, perhaps—must elapse before the

Mohammedan rule could spread through Malwa. Nay, India might rise and

drive the invaders back across her cruel mountains before the prophet’s

followers had looked upon the Dekhan. And as Fidá grimly strangled his

new-springing, infant hope, his cup of misery seemed full. Despair

gripped him; and in its iron arms he slept.

Two days passed before Fidá again visited Ahmed. There was some excuse

for his absence, perhaps, for he was now become a slave indeed, and had

been given new tasks, one of which might, perhaps, have been regarded

as something of a favor. The charge of young Bhavani’s horsemanship was

placed with him; and every afternoon, for an hour, he was commanded to

lead the young prince up and down the road beside the water palace,

instructing him as to his seat, the carrying of weapons, and the

management of his animal. Although the spirit of his new work made Fidá

ache with the memory of his free warrior days, still he was proud of

the confidence reposed in him; and he and the young prince soon took a

fancy for each other. At first Rai-Khizar-Pál frequently appeared at

some period of the lesson; and, having convinced himself that his slave

was really fitted to instil the knightly spirit into his son, Fidá

found himself restored to a part of his former favor.

The matter of the riding lessons and the companionship with Bhavani

were not given up while Fidá lived in Mandu; and, long before he left

it, despair over his captivity had been driven from his heart. For

forty-eight hours after the return of the ambassadors of ransom, he

hugged misery close, and the future was veiled in black. But on the

third day his lonely fortitude gave way, and, when Bhavani’s lesson was

over, he stole down to the house of eunuchs and into Churi’s familiar

room. Ahmed, convalescent now, lay sound asleep upon his bed. But upon

Fidá’s appearance, Churi came forth from a shadowy corner, and took him

by the hand.

“Come, let us sit here, Asra,” he said, in a low voice, at the same

time leading his visitor to the place where he had been sitting.

Fidá, mildly surprised at his manner, settled himself. Churi sat down

at his side, and stared at him, meditatively, for some minutes. Then a

distorted smile broke over his face. “I was waiting for thee, prince of

the Asra.”

“I am no prince,” returned Fidá, savagely. “I—”

“Yet,” broke in Churi, “I bring a message to you from a—princess.” He

paused. Fidá sat staring at him, incredulous of his ears.

“I have a message for Fidá, Prince of the Asra,” repeated Churi, at

length, with emphasis. “Wouldst hear it?”

“Speak!” answered the slave, hoarsely.

“These, then, are the words I was told to say to thee: ‘Why comes

not the Asra to her that waits? The way shall be easy to one greatly

aspiring’.” Churi spoke in the lowest voice; and Fidá strained forward

to catch the words.

“‘Why comes he not to her that waits? The way shall be easy—to one

greatly aspiring’,” he repeated, trying to grasp all that it meant.

“And there was this to be given,” continued Churi, taking from his

girdle, and handing to Fidá, a faded and wilted poppy.

Fidá grasped the flower in his hand, and started wildly to his feet.

“Take me to her!” cried he. “Take me to her, Churi! Allah give thee

life!”

“Quiet! Quiet! Shall the whole palace hear thee?” Churi glared at

him, without moving from where he sat. In his face there was no sign

of life. And, at his words, and still more by the cold indifference

into which his expression had relapsed, Fidá’s flaming eagerness was

chilled. His face grew questioning. The hand holding the poppy dropped

to his side. Then Churi spoke, slowly:

“I have delivered to thee the message. Find thou the way.”

“Churi!”

The eunuch smiled, vaguely.

The smile accomplished much. Fidá’s impatience gave way. Determination

took its place. He sat down again beside his tormentor, placed the

poppy carefully in his own sash, and then leaned persuasively toward

his expressionless companion. “Tell me, Churi, wherein I am wrong,” he

said, sweetly.

Now, Churi had got himself into an anomalous position. He had, as a

matter of fact, accepted a gift from Ahalya for the transmission of her

message; and he was perfectly well aware that she expected him to go

much farther in the betrayal of his office than she had asked in words.

But Churi was not quite prepared for these lengths. His actions during

the last few moments had been instinctive. He was trusting to chance to

show him a method of procedure. After some little thought, he answered

Fidá as truthfully as he could.

“Thou’rt wrong in this, Asra, that thou acceptest this message for

truth when it says: ‘the way is easy to one greatly aspiring’. The

way is not easy, but, rather, so difficult that I see no means of

traversing it.”

“Dost thou not, indeed? Ah, but thou aspirest not, Churi. That is the

difference.”

Churi shrugged.

“Now I already see the feat performed. Shall I explain it to thee?”

“I am a listener, Asra.”

“Then hark. Between the hours of twelve and two, the zenana is guarded

by one that is a kindly man. At the hour of his watch this fellow, for

just the shadow of an instant, falls asleep. Lo! The way is open!” Fidá

smiled delightedly.

Churi, however, turned on him a solemn look. “Truly thou hast little

regard for the life of the ‘kindly one’. Knowest thou not the penalty

for a guardian that sleeps?”

Once again Fidá sprang to his feet. “Name of Allah, man, why hast thou

brought this message then? Was it to drive me mad? Am I a fool to be

mocked at? What meanest thou?”

Churi’s color changed perceptibly. “I mock thee not,” he said, in a

voice that rang untrue. “I mock thee not. Behold, thou demandest of me

my safety, my fidelity, my life. Is that so small a thing to ask—as a

gift?”

“A gift! Ah! I see.” Fidá’s head sank upon his breast, and, for a

moment, he was lost in thought. Then, looking Churi straight in the

eyes, he said: “I am a slave—thou knowest that. What wilt thou have of

me? Wilt thou take my life when once I have done the bidding of—the

beloved?”

“Thy life is useless to me.”

“Killing me, thou couldst save thine honor.”

“I am no murderer.”

“Then—wait! Wait.” Fidá’s hand flew to his sash. He was not

treasureless. Nay, at this moment there was, on his body, a fortune

greater than that asked as his ransom. True, it was worth more to him

than his freedom. He had been willing to suffer slavery rather than

deliver up his race to death. But love!—Ah, the Asra had always held

that greater than life. Love was beyond price. Should not the Asra

ruby buy him the love that must eventually kill him? Instantly impulse

answered that death, after the love of Ahalya, would be as nothing. Yet

he waited to weigh the question further; and was met on every hand by

reason flanked with love. What promise did life hold out to him:—the

dry, lonely, lowering life of the slave? At the end death would come,

and the ruby be buried with him, or pass to the conqueror of the alien

race. Let him, then, buy a great, brief joy with it, and afterwards a

speedy exit from his slavery.

Fidá drew forth the golden box, Churi watching him with surprise and

interest. Pressing the hidden spring, he let the ruby roll into his

palm, and held it out to Churi.

“Look,” said he. “Take it into thy hand and look.”

The eunuch complied; and, seeing how the wonderful stone gleamed and

glowed even here in the shadows, his eyes brightened and his lips

twitched.

“This is the key to the zenana. Take it, Churi, and unlock the door for

me—to-night.”

Churi looked up into Fidá’s face, and found there sincerity and

earnestness. For a moment he hesitated, considering, counting the cost.

At last his eyes fell. “How much is this ruby worth?” he asked, in a

low voice.

“More than was asked for my ransom.”

“Why, then, didst thou not ransom thyself with it?”

“It holds in it the fate of the Asra. For her, only, would I surrender

it.”

“Hath the Rajah seen it?”

“Yes, and suffered it to remain with me for the sake of my people.”

“How, then, shall I take it from thee?”

“Because I give it—freely.”

Churi’s hand closed slowly on the stone. His eyes were glittering as he

rose at last. “Come, then, to the antechamber, to-night,” he murmured.

Fidá’s face grew radiant. “Wilt thou tell her?”

“I will tell her.”

“At midnight to-night—oh, my beloved!”

Churi stared at him still. “Truly thou aspirest greatly,” he said, with

envy in his heart.

CHAPTER VII

THE POWER OF THE FLAME

After his arrangement with Churi, and the delivery of the ruby, the

remaining hours of daylight passed for Fidá in swift chaos. Ahmed woke

before he could leave the room; and he sat beside the boy trying to

talk to him for a few minutes, though he had little notion of what he

was saying. Then he returned to his duties beside the Rajah, and for

the next three hours was fully occupied, though his mind wandered far

from his hands, and he drifted through mists of thought. It was not

till later that there came an idea that filled him with terror. Might

not the King himself guard the zenana to-night? Happily this dread was

of short duration. The King sat late over his wine with Manava; and

Fidá himself saw him in bed and beyond apprehension. Then, at last

alone, Fidá betook himself to his diminutive room, and there prepared

to wait through two eternal hours.

How long the time was; and how short! He would not look back; he dared

not look forward. He existed only in a consciousness that she, she, the

one, was waiting for him; that to-night, at last, he should be alone

with her, fearing no intrusion. This unexpressed thought he had lived

with all day; and it became keener, now, till he could not be still.

It grew late. The palace was quiet; but Fidá was beyond passiveness.

He rose, walked swiftly through the maze of rooms and passages, and

entered the silent courtyard. The moon, a little past the full, had

come up from the east, and swung, like a great, yellow lantern, above

the dark outlines of the palace roof. The world shone softly in the

mellow light. The night air from the hills was cold; but the earth was

sweet. Fidá loitered near a doorway, wrapped in his cloak. The great

courtyard was empty save for the two motionless soldiers that guarded

its entrance. Apparently not another soul was abroad in the palace

to-night. Fidá moved languidly across and looked into the temple room

of Vishnu. Darkness and silence here. The gods also slept. A great

excitement, a great terror, a high ecstasy were drawing over him.

Surely now it was time—time to claim the price of the ruby. Surely by

this time Churi stood on guard in the antechamber. Yet nothing must be

risked. If he were too early?—The thought was impossible. He waited,

therefore, till the moon was halfway to mid-heaven, and then, when he

could endure no more, left the outer world. A moment later he stood at

the door of the antechamber.

“Is it thou?” came, in the faintest breath, from Churi, within.

In an instant Fidá was at his side, and had seized him by the arm.

“Now! Now!” said he, gazing fiercely, eagerly, into the eunuch’s

unmatched eyes.

“Enter then, and turn to the left hand. The way is short. It is not to

be missed.”

Fidá grasped Churi by the shoulders, clasped him for a second like

a madman, and then ran across the forbidden threshold—where man not

of the royal house of Mandu had never set foot before. Swiftly he

traversed the short, dark passage opening on his left, and presently

found himself in an oblong room, lighted by a single crimson lamp that

glowed through a mist of incense smoke pouring up from a metal jar on a

stand, near by. Dazed by the overpowering sweetness, he shut his eyes

for an instant. When he opened them again, he had a swift impression

of rich tapestries, thick rugs, many cushions, and then—and then he

beheld, lying on a divan at the end of the room, a slight figure, all

clad in red and gold, lying asleep in the heavy air.

His heart pounded against his sides. His throat tightened till he could

have uttered no sound; and he went to her, softly, and knelt at her

side, and gazed at her. She was here—waiting for him. Her white lids

were shut over her eyes, and the long, silky lashes curved outward a

little from her cheek. Her heavy hair was pushed back from her brows;

and one of her little hands lay in a mass of it above her head. Fidá

studied her, hungrily, eagerly, silently. He had never seen her like

this before—had, indeed, never dreamed of seeing her so. She was his,

for his eyes to feast on. And oh—how fair! how fair! In that moment

he dreaded to have her wake; for then she would surely send him from

her. It seemed to him impossible that she could love him, could suffer

him to kneel beside her. Yet, with an effort, after two attempts, he

whispered her name, hoarsely: “Ahalya!” Then again, after a moment,

“Ahalya!”

She sighed, and her eyes opened. Shivering slightly, she stared, and

sat up, crying: “Thou art come! Ah, thou art come at last!”

That was all. It was more than mortal flesh could bear. He had touched,

he had clasped her. She was lying in his arms.

Nearly two hours went by; and then Neila appeared from an inner room.

Ahalya was still upon the divan, her head pillowed on the breast of

Fidá, who sat upright. It seemed almost as if they slept, so motionless

they were. Neila halted in the doorway, staring at them, till she

encountered the glittering eyes of the Asra.

“Oh, thou must go! It is time,” she murmured.

“No!” Ahalya, feeling the intruding presence, roused herself, and

convulsively tightened the clasp of her arms about Fidá’s neck.

“Krishna!” mourned Neila, “we shall all be killed!”

Fidá, however, conquered himself, and loosened the Ranee’s arms.

“Beloved, I must go—that I may return,” he whispered.

Trembling, Ahalya submitted; and, as Fidá rose, she sank upon the

divan, face downward, nor could any intreaty induce her to lift her

head again. So they parted, without a word; and, at the zenana door,

Fidá found Churi, excited and uneasy. He hailed the Asra’s appearance

with infinite relief.

“Mahendra will be here in a breath. I had nearly come for thee.”

Fidá smiled at him out of shining eyes. “Ah, Churi, had I a thousand

rubies, they should all be thine!”

“Thou fool!” rose to Churi’s lips. But he only said: “Verily, the

danger is worth rubies, even of the value of thine. Is this thing to be

done again?”

“Again and yet again! until—” Fidá’s face darkened, “until I pay my

price—of death.”

But Fidá as yet was far from death. Overcome with weariness he

returned to his bed, and slept for nearly six hours before he woke to

the new joy of light and living. That day he was as a man drunk. His

exhilaration was boundless. He walked upon air. His eyes shone, his

voice rang triumphant with love. The world was at its climax. She was

his. What mattered dishonor? What mattered treachery, slavery, or the

old, forgotten curse? Love, youth, the world, were his. Should he ask

more?

With the evening came his answer. With all this, he had still little

enough; for the King ruled in his zenana, and Fidá began to know

something of the sinner’s suffering. She was beyond the protection of

him to whom by right of soul she belonged. She was beyond him; and

yet, second by second, he must suffer for and with her. He wept and

raved and clenched his shaking hands in the madness of jealousy at

this retribution of the wrong he had done. In the new day, as he came

to gaze upon the tranquil face of his conqueror, his whole being was

stirred with wonder that such things as were in his heart could lie

there unsuspected. But Rai-Khizar-Pál could not know the heart of his

slave, nor how, with night, hope came again.

As soon as Churi went on guard at midnight, Fidá appeared in the

antechamber, unstrung and reckless. He would have rushed past the

eunuch without a word, but that he was forcibly restrained. This

action, on the part of his one ally, goaded Fidá fairly to madness;

and, without speaking, he flung himself into a fierce struggle with the

eunuch, whose strength, however, he presently discovered to be very

great. When both of them were all but exhausted, the Asra, coming to

himself, fell back, staring hopelessly at his opponent, and murmuring,

more to himself than to Churi:

“Thou traitor! Oh, miserable! Have I sold my birthright for this!”

“Madman!” retorted Churi, “thinkest thou there is no reason in what I

do? I serve our lady. She bade me deny thee entrance.”

“It is not true!”

“By Krishna, I swear it.”

“Ahalya!” Fidá’s face grew deathlike.

“Neila came to me at dusk. The Ranee is sick and shaken with grief and

fear. Thou canst not see her—yet.”

“_Yet!_”

Churi smiled cynically. “Thou boy! Verily thou knowest little of women.

Wait in patience, Asra. I think thou shalt see her again. I will not

prevent thee. But now, leave this place, if you court not death.”

Without further words, Fidá turned and left the room. When he reached

his bed again, he flung himself upon it, and lay for a long time

staring into the dark. Then, gradually, he fell to weeping; and while

he wept, Allah had pity on his weakness, and sent him sleep.

But Ahalya! Poor Ahalya! While her lover’s heart accused her of all

faithlessness, she suffered not one whit less than he. She loved

Fidá, indeed, wholly. Their meeting had been of her own desire and

arrangement. But she was young in intrigue, new to dishonor. And

when solitude brought her face to face with what she had done, she

was plunged into despair. Her mind distorted all things. Fidá seemed

infinitely remote from her. Their love had been a thing of such magical

growth that, having been half the time unconscious of the workings

of her own senses, she, in the first reaction, began to disbelieve

altogether in her love. She was in a labyrinth of warped emotion,

shame, and remorse; and, till she found herself again, the very name of

Fidá was abhorrent to her.

All through the day that followed their first meeting the Ranee lay on

her bed, wide-eyed, tearless, and unapproachable. Neila wondered and

watched, but dared not intrude upon her. On the evening of that day

came Rai-Khizar-Pál, all unconsciously bringing her punishment for her

sin. For two days after this she remained in seclusion, while Neila and

Churi vainly took counsel together on behalf of the slave, for whom

each felt some sort of unselfish concern. But, though Fidá was on the

verge of madness, not a word could be got out of Ahalya concerning him:

not one message would she send. Churi began to doubt his theory of the

fallibility of women; and Neila would not have been surprised at a full

confession of everything to Rai-Khizar-Pál. But at last, miraculously,

came an incident from an unexpected quarter that did what no amount of

pleading and persuasion could have accomplished.

In the hidden drama that had, in the past few days, been enacted in

Mandu, there was a certain personage, long since accustomed to play an

important rôle in every game of intrigue, who had had no part at all.

Nevertheless, Lord Ragunáth was not going to be discounted forever; and

it was at this stage of events that he appeared upon the scene. Perhaps

a scent of hidden things was in the air. Perhaps his sensibilities,

attuned to all that was secret, caught some vibration of treachery;

though the nature of that treachery remained undreamed-of. At any rate,

it was just at the time when the object of his furtive desires was torn

and riven with a struggle in which he was not concerned, that Ragunáth

suffered one of his periodic fits of madness, and hit upon a new and,

at last, successful method of gaining one of his ends.

The two eunuchs who had recently died of fever in the palace had been

men of experience and importance in their station; and they had been

replaced by two others, supposedly responsible, from Bágh. Kasya had

satisfied himself that both were trustworthy; but Kanava, sounding them

from another quarter, found in one of them a long-sought weakness.

On the afternoon of the fourth day of Fidá’s misery, when the Rajah

was attending ceremonial in the village at the other end of the

plateau, one of these men, Kripa by name, stood on guard in the zenana

antechamber. Kripa was tired, and Kripa was bored with the prospect of

two stifling hours of solitary watching. He was, then, undisposed to be

short with any one that came to break his dull thoughts. And when Lord

Ragunáth unexpectedly appeared before him, he greeted the minister with

a mixture of curiosity and reverence that Ragunáth found propitious to

his purpose. He had come well prepared and fortified with the corrupter

of prudence, the breaker of faith, the power of the evil-minded—a

goodly sum of money. For a few moments he applied himself to his task

with all his considerable mind and tact; and, at the end of that time,

Kripa stood before him a newly enlisted mercenary. It had been arranged

between them that Ragunáth was to stay in the anteroom and there have a

brief interview with the Lady of his Desire; provided of course that,

what he did not for a moment doubt, she would see him.

Quite tremulous with eagerness, Ragunáth pushed his minion into the

zenana, bearing a blind message to the Lady Ahalya to come at once,

if it were her pleasure, to the antechamber. Kripa reappeared in a

very short space of time, smiling the word that the Ranee would follow

him. And Ragunáth, drunk with high success, commanded the fallen one

to remain away for at least an hour. Promising nothing, but very well

satisfied to be free for a little while, though he dared not join

his companions, Kripa, drowsy with the dusk and quiet of his watch,

wandered off into the maze of rooms around the audience hall, lay down

upon a convenient divan, and was shortly sound asleep.

Ragunáth, meantime, had grown as nervous and eager as a youth while he

waited the coming of the Ranee. She did not keep him long. As he stood

watching the curtained doorway, she appeared, her young face pale and

strained, but with expectation in it; her form all swathed in crimson

silks. At sight of her, Ragunáth gave a low cry of emotion; but, in the

same instant, Ahalya’s face changed utterly.

“Thou!” she said, half wondering, half sobbing.

“I, rose of heaven! I, star among women, whose hair holds the fragrance

of the jessamine, whose breath is perfumed like the almond blossom. I,

I, Ragunáth, have sought thee, and beseech thy favor; for, indeed, I am

gone mad for love of thee!” And, throwing himself before her, Ragunáth

lifted the filmy hem of her garment to his lips.

Ahalya still stood in the doorway, clinging to the curtains on

either side of her, her face expressing a mixture of repulsion and

disappointment. As Ragunáth would have clasped her feet, she drew back,

sharply:

“Away from me, dishonorable one!” she said, in a low, angry voice. “If

you would not have me expose this treachery to Rai-Khizar-Pál,—begone!”

Ragunáth did not rise. Rather, he lay writhing at her feet, like one

possessed of a frenzy—as indeed he was. But it was a resolving frenzy.

After the period of madness, he was coming to himself again. Pride

returned to him, and, with it, something of his usual cunning, as he

remembered how willing Ahalya had been to come before him. It was then

that he got to his feet; then that he turned on the woman, asking,

softly, through shame of the display he had made:

“O, Ranee, it was not I, then, that you came to greet? It was not for

Ragunáth that you are decked out in crimson and gold? And for whom? for

whom? Not Rai-Khizar. He waits not in antechambers for thy greeting.

Ah, will it be wise, Ranee, to ‘expose’ me to thy lord? There are

things—”

“Be still! thou shameless, treacherous, hateful one! I hate you! Know

that. I hate—I hate—I hate you!” And, her voice on the last word rising

to a shrill cry, the young woman, white faced and burning eyed, turned

from him and fled into the inaccessible rooms beyond. There, panting,

sobbing, angry, and, in her heart of hearts, greatly terrified,

she flung herself upon a couch and gave herself up unreservedly to

acknowledgment of her hidden love and woe.

Now, during the few moments of this interview, Neila, astonished and

frightened at what she, like Ahalya, believed to be Fidá’s appearance

at this hour, had, as soon as her mistress left her, run to seek out

Churi, whom she brought back more disturbed than she, just as the Ranee

returned to her rooms. Churi did not enter there, but proceeded at once

to the antechamber. Parting the curtains that hung before the door, he

started, and stood stock-still to find himself face to face with the

one man he had had no thought of. Ragunáth was still standing where

Ahalya had left him, and, at this new appearance, he was too much taken

aback to note the newcomer’s discomposure.

“Churi!” he muttered, half in alarm, half angrily.

“Even so, Lord Ragunáth.” At once Churi was himself again.

“Dog! who sent thee here?”

“The Puissant One speaks the same words that had lain on my humble

lips.”

“Strangely indeed is the King’s zenana conducted! I pass the

antechamber and see no guard therein. I enter the antechamber that I

may see if the guard be perhaps concealed from view; and, as I look,

there appears a pariah, who sees fit to insult me. By Indra, thou

doctor of dogs, thou shalt be whipped for it!”

There came a little pause, during which Churi, with his disturbing

eyes, gazed steadily, smoothly, quietly upon the man that faced him,

till Ragunáth fairly writhed under the look. Then Churi said: “It

pleases the high lord to speak these words. Since it pleases him, it is

well. But,” and the tone changed, “let him take care that he act not as

he speaks. There are things more strange than unguarded antechambers

that may come to the ears of the Rajah.” Churi’s eyes menaced now.

Ragunáth gave some sort of hoarse ejaculation; and then, after wavering

for a moment, he turned and walked swiftly away, nor halted till he was

safe in his own rooms, with a personal slave or two on whom to wreak

his wrath and his double mortification.

Churi, left alone, was well pleased with himself. Luckily the

self-satisfaction was not too great to prevent his having his wits

still about him. He knew that this was Kripa’s watch, and in three

minutes he had hunted out the deserter’s retreat, kicked him awake, and

despatched him to his post thoroughly frightened. Yet Kripa was allowed

to remain in possession of his gold; for Churi was in no position to

expose the acts of the man he hated.

Unlucky as it had already proved to its two principal actors, the

little drama of the afternoon had further results. Ahalya, even in

the anger of revulsion against Ragunáth, knew that there was another

feeling in her heart: dared, after a time, admit to herself her

disappointment that it had not been Fidá who thus boldly summoned her

to him; for indeed she had gone to the anteroom, on Kripa’s summons,

thinking to find her lover there. Before nightfall she knew that she

longed to see Fidá again; and the more she repudiated the thought,

the more insistent it became, until she yielded to it. In the early

darkness Churi was despatched to bid him come to her that night.

When Churi managed to waylay the slave, Fidá was on his way to the

rooms where wine was stored, to fill a jar for his lord’s evening meal.

It needed only a look between the two for the eunuch’s errand to be

understood. Fidá laid a hand on Churi’s arm, and said, softly: “In the

name of Allah, Churi, speak to me!”

“There is no need,” answered the other, looking at him in a quizzical

but not unkindly manner.

“She will see me? I shall go to her again?”

“To-night. As before.”

In a single instant the accumulated anger and anguish of the past

four days melted and ran away from the youth’s heart. His load of

unhappiness was lifted. Once more he walked on air. It seemed to him

that he radiated life. But the few hours that still separated them

brought him much that was new in the way of thought. Since she had

forgiven him, he perceived that his banishment had been, in large

measure, brought on by himself. He had not sufficiently considered

her, her woman’s delicacy and hesitation. He had acted as his youth

and his manhood prompted him. But he resolved that there should be no

such mistake again. The thought of her now brought a deep tenderness,

which, indeed, might have surprised Ahalya could she have read it. Nor

were the six hours of the evening long or heavy. He had a foundation

on which to build his castle of dreams; and his heart was full of

thankfulness and relief. It was five minutes after midnight when he

entered the little room where Churi stood.

“All is well?” asked Fidá, his mouth dry.

“All is well. No one is stirring. Enter.”

Fidá’s bright eyes grew brighter still; and he ran boyishly through

the doorway into the little passage where, this time, Neila awaited

him. He followed her, in silence, down the short hall, through the

memorable room at the end of it, which was empty to-night, and across

the next one, that he had never seen, to a door at which Neila knocked.

A moment’s suspense, and then a muffled voice said, “Open!” The maid

pushed it, and motioned to Fidá, who passed swiftly within. The door

closed behind him. He was gazing upon the figure of Ahalya, who stood

a few feet away, looking at him, doubtfully, longingly, half sadly.

His heart throbbed with many emotions. He took a hesitating step or

two toward her, pleading with his eyes. Then, all at once, there was a

quick, low cry, and Ahalya had flung herself into his arms.

What passed between them now were difficult to relate. Afterwards

they themselves had but a confused idea. It was very certain that

Ahalya loved him; for she delivered herself up entirely to his will.

Yet, with each of them, passion was mingled with something better: a

deep tenderness, a high companionship, the mutual compassion of the

unhappy. She laid upon him a great responsibility, telling him over

and over again that without him she should not try to live; explaining

the torture of her self-hatred: the shame that, loving him, she must

still submit to another; wetting his eyes with her tears while she

demanded from him a solution of her miserable problem. Pitying while

he loved, Fidá read what her warped life had been, and all the history

of her loneliness. Nor did he fail her in a certain sort of comfort,

of a philosophical nature, for which she cared little, save that it

came from his lips. But she listened eagerly to all that he told her

of himself, of his country and his life; though he withheld the story

of the curse, of which, at their first meeting, he had given her a

suggestion that she seemed to have forgotten. They talked long, but the

talk was finally hushed. Fidá extinguished the single lamp that burned.

And later, Neila, come to warn them of the time, found them there in

the darkness, Ahalya weeping in his arms.

This time it was the woman that bade her lover leave her; for Fidá

had not the strength to put her from him. When at last he reached

the anteroom, only three or four minutes before the appearance of

Churi’s relief, the latter’s heart was in his throat, and he was

ready to declare that he would never again run the risk of disaster

and discovery through the slave’s rashness. Later in the night he

sought Fidá in his own room, and the two had a long talk together. The

eunuch had come with the purpose of protesting against the present

arrangement, with which he was in a high state of dissatisfaction. But

he ended by allowing himself to be, to some extent, overpowered by the

earnestness and the logic of love; though after he had departed, Fidá

lay awake for a long time, anxiously considering the risks that he ran

in placing all his dependence on this one person, whom he knew very

well to be in some ways entirely unreliable.

Churi, indeed, was playing a part very different from the one he had

imagined for himself. He had entered upon the affair rather blindly,

and with the belief that a few weeks, perhaps days even, would convert

his ruby into money; upon which his freedom would quickly follow. A

little time had shown him his mistake. The ruby was not a gem easily

to be sold; for the simple reason that no one in Mandu save the Rajah

himself was wealthy enough to buy it; and Rai-Khizar-Pál knew the

stone, and to whom it belonged. Questions were not to be risked. Churi

soon realized that he must wait until the spring, when the travelling

merchants from Rajputana would come down from the north with the rich

wares that made their arduous journeys profitable. One of these,

the eunuch knew very well, would take his stone, without questions.

Meantime, what was his course to be? It was true that he was genuinely

attached to Ahalya, and had some feeling for Fidá. Moreover, his

natural talent for intrigue rejoiced at the risk of the present affair.

Nevertheless, that risk, as matters stood at present, was too great.

Soon, then, he found his mind at work reconstructing, building up new

safeguards against that bombshell which, one day, no caution could keep

from an explosion that must betray its existence to Mandu in ruin and

destruction.

Churi, evil-thinking, evil-doing, was nevertheless faithful to his

better instincts. It was not for his own gain that he set his mind to

work at new plans of entrance to the zenana; and at finding therefrom

new exits, to be used in case of need. These plans materialized well;

and, by the bedside of the now almost recovered Ahmed, he expounded

his ideas to Fidá. The Asra was already aware that the zenana was

accessible by other ways than the central portion of the palace. The

passage from the north wing to the little court was left unguarded

for the simple reason that, by day, no one could enter there without

risk of being seen by half a hundred eyes; and by night the face of

the zenana itself was made, by means of chains and locks, a perfectly

impenetrable wall, by which the high Lord Ragunáth himself had more

than once been baffled. For Fidá, however, this difficulty did not

exist. On the other side of that wall there were willing hands to work

for him; for Churi himself had the task of fastening doors and wooden

window-screens at nightfall. Who was there to discover that one of

these, in the inner room of the Ranee Ahalya, was left unlocked? Who

was there to note the tiny hinge which deft-handed Churi substituted

for a bolt? Rai-Khizar-Pál never perceived these things; and, beside

him, Neila was the only soul that entered the Ranee’s bedroom. Shortly,

then, Fidá had ceased to be dependent on the antechamber for access

to his lady; and he and Churi both wondered how so obvious a means

had slipped their first consideration. But passion soon began to get

the better of the Arabian. His gracelessness no longer stopped with

the night. Hairbrained were the risks he ran, wild the chances that

he took, though all the time it seemed that he was protected by a

scandalous providence. Churi and Neila spent days and nights of dread;

but Ahalya was as blind to caution as the Asra; and together they

overran advice or pleadings; and recklessly they laughed with Fate.

Two months—a little more—went by: to the lovers, months of ecstasy

and despair, of joy inexpressible, and keenest agony; for love like

theirs carries constantly its own punishment. But the man and the

woman were young, of Oriental blood, the desire for affection in each

rendered abnormal by the restraint to which both had been subject.

Fidá went without sleep and without food, and yet seemed to suffer

no untoward effects from his nerve-destroying existence. Indeed, so

remarkable was his vitality, so strong his power of recuperation after

the longest service and watchfulness, that he, and Churi also, began in

their minds to scoff at the Asra curse, and wonder whence the quaint

legend had originated. Ahalya, who had little to do, save in so far as

Rai-Khizar-Pál demanded her companionship, spent all the hours in which

she and Fidá were apart, in dreaming of their next meeting. Never had

she been so beautiful as now. Every line of weariness and discontent

had disappeared from her face. Her eyes, under the light of their new

knowledge, shone like stars. Her face took on a new glow of color, more

clear, more pure, more rose-and-white than ever. Her voice had gained

a new and tender richness; and, as she dreamed over the Persian harp

that she loved to play, Neila used to listen in amazement to the beauty

of her singing. Her increased charm had its penalty, however; for the

Rajah was not slow in perception, and seemed more and more to delight

in her, keeping her at his side oftener than of old. And the suffering

entailed by this was nearly enough to drive the loveliness away.

Varied as were the duties of Fidá’s life, pleasant, or dull, or

interesting as they might otherwise have been, he performed all save

one apathetically, as so much dull labor to be got through willy-nilly.

Everything in him, every thought, every wish, was under Ahalya’s sway.

Body and heart and brain she ruled him, as, indeed, he ruled her.

There was now scarcely a suggestion of remorse or regret in either of

them. The lower natures of both were in the ascendant; and there were

numberless hours when the flesh reigned supreme. In his saner moments

Fidá sometimes paused to analyze himself, doubtfully, wondering if he

could be the Fidá of Delhi and of Yemen. But during the last month

he was not often sane; and when, with the glare of the day, other

thoughts, truths, reproaches, came to him, he fought them off, refusing

to consider, not daring to remember, his code.

El-Islam, life to the true Arabian, was, by degrees, deserting the

captive. How should he maintain a religion that taught moderation in

all things, duty to the master, forbearance from intoxication? Ahalya,

whose mother, in her long captivity, had lost her own beautiful Magian

religion, and who had herself been brought up a Hindoo, had, like

many Indian women of station, taken the god Krishna, lord of beauty,

romance, and love, for her special deity. And some of the pretty

ceremony and graceful superstition of her half-doubtful beliefs had

woven themselves like an evil web around Fidá’s brain. Often, during

their quiet hours, Ahalya used to sing to her lover parts of the great

Indian Song of Songs—the wooing of Krishna and Radha. And her voice,

and the smooth-flowing poetry of the words, charmed him into new

forgetfulness of the sterner western creed. The story was well fitted

to their state. As Ahalya sang, he loved to call her Radha; and if she

delighted in him as the incarnation of her too well worshipped god, her

lover saw in it no sacrilege. But in this way his prayers grew strange

to him; and he became in some sort a pagan, unworthy of any god.

There was but one pursuit left in which they found an honest pleasure.

Both of them loved the boy, Bhavani, whom, in different ways, each was

instructing in a primitive code of manhood and chivalry. The child had

taken so strong a fancy to Fidá that his father, perfectly confident of

the Asra’s fitness for the position, began more and more to surrender

him as cup-bearer in order that he might attend his son. And Fidá,

finding the child truthful, obedient, and affectionate, took a genuine

pride in instructing him in all that he knew. There were times, indeed,

when the man, brought into close contact with young innocence and

instinctive honor, was drawn to a certain unavoidable sense of guilt;

and this same thing Ahalya felt, when, in accordance with the young

prince’s wishes, she rehearsed with him, in their old way, the dramatic

epics of ancient Indian heroism and self-sacrifice. And so much alike

had the minds of the lovers become, that the young Bhavani, imbibing

from each the same often identically expressed principles, came by

degrees to connect the two in his mind; perhaps even, with a child’s

intuition, guessing something of their position, though unconscious of

its sin.

The momentary and fleeting suggestions of remorse were very slight,

however, even with Ahalya. Neila, who knew all, watched her mistress

in perpetual wonder; for she had changed utterly. She was a gazelle

transformed to a tigress; and the handmaid, who worshipped her with the

worship of a slave for a queen, now feared her while she loved her,

and because she loved her, also feared. Neila, never told anything in

words, had known all from the first, and from that first had acted as

go-between. In spite of the cynicism of Fidá, who, after the Mohammedan

fashion, trusted no woman, she had proved faithful to both of them,

and had held the interests of both at heart. For, if Ahalya were

her princess, Fidá was a captive prince, a man rarely beautiful in

form, and, moreover, the very first that, to her knowledge, had ever

succeeded in doing what he had done. He had risen to great heights in

her eyes; and if Ahalya sometimes called her lover by the name of her

wooden god, Neila carried the matter farther yet, and half believed

that Fidá was really more than human.

In this different-wise ten weeks passed, and it came to be the third

Ashtaka[4] of Magghar Poh (December). This sacrifice and festival,

begun at noon, was wont to continue till midnight; and the Rajah,

jealous of Brahman prerogatives, never failed to take a chief place in

such rites. Fidá, an outcast according to Hindoo codes, was, during

this holy ceremony, not allowed on sacred ground; and he therefore gave

himself up to the propitious time, and spent eight of the twelve hours

at Ahalya’s side. It wanted ten minutes to two when he left her, by the

now usual means of the low window in her room. Wrapping himself closely

in the long, white cloak of thin woollen stuff that made part of his

winter clothing, he started across the little, dark courtyard.

[4] On every eighth day through December and January there is a

special Brahman sacrifice called the “Ashtaka.” (See Grihya-Sutras,

Vol. I, p. 203, M. Müller edit.)

The noise of the revellers in the great court had not yet died away;

and Fidá debated whether he dared pass through them on his way to bed.

For the first time in many weeks he was thoroughly exhausted; and the

chilly night air swept over his parched and burning body with grateful

effect. All at once he felt that he dreaded to be alone because of

the thoughts that might come upon him. Entering the north wing, he

rapidly traversed the narrow passage leading past Ragunáth’s rooms,

turned instinctively in the usual direction, and presently emerged

at the court, where the ceremonial was over, the fires burning low,

and the soma revellers lying or standing about in various degrees of

intoxication. Near the door of the audience hall stood a little group

of priests and officials, among whom were the Rajah and Ragunáth. Not

daring to approach these, and giving not more than a passing thought to

the matter, gradually overcome by vague, chaotic ideas that were rising

in his mind, Fidá went on, out into the road, and along it till he came

to the water palace that stood on the edge of the plateau, overlooking

the south plain, through which the great Narmáda rushed. Here, in

the stillness, Fidá halted, looking around him. He was beside one of

the smooth water-basins overhung with slender bamboos and tamarind

shrubs, with tangles of lotus-plants floating, brown and dead, upon

its mirror-like surface. Before him rose the low, level walls of this

charming accident of Indian architecture. On high, overhead, hung a

late moon, wreathed in a feathery mist of night clouds, and throwing a

faint light over the plain and the distant river. To the right, in the

distance, a long, black, irregular shadow, rose the giant barrier of

the Vindhyas, beyond whose mystic recesses, far northward, lay distant

Delhi, the city of the slow-conquering race, the people of the captive

now standing here alone with the night. Gradually, as Fidá looked,

a great awe stole upon him. His body had grown cold with the night

chill; but his mind took no heed of the flesh. A change was upon him.

His chaotic thoughts were shaping themselves. Gradually, before the

vastness, the high dignity of nature, the ugliness of his last weeks

became clear to him, and he trembled with horror of himself. Slow tears

ran down his cold, set face. He locked his hands together, and rocked

his stiffened body to and fro. A cry was welling up in the heart of

him, standing there in the face of Allah’s creation: the high-reaching

hills, the wide, moonlit plain. To his overstrained nerves it seemed

that they judged him, in their immense incorruptibleness:—him, the

corrupt. And presently the mountains lifted up their voices and

spake. Plainly to his ears, out of the dim, black recesses, came low,

deep tones, uttering first his name: “_Fidá ibn-Mahmud ibn-Hassan

el-Asra_,” and then, after a long pause, the words, old and familiar

to him since childhood, the tradition of his race:

“Cursed be the Asra by Osman: cursed this day and forevermore any man

of them that loveth woman as I have loved Zenora. Let him die in the

first year of his loving, though from east to west he seek a cure. And

to him that taketh from another a promised wife, may the curse of Allah

the Avenger seek him out till he be hidden in the depth of Hell. Thus

I, Osman, curse thy race!”

Down from far generations rolled these words into the ears of the

youngest of the Asra, who, hearing them, uttered a deep cry, and,

swaying for a moment where he stood, presently fell, face down, into

the dead grass beside the pool.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CURSE

The night moved quietly on, the moon dropped westward, and still Fidá,

lying there on the dead kusa grass, did not stir. From his swoon he

had fallen into a heavy sleep which was unmoved by the slow passing

of the night. The far mountains, oblivious of the havoc they had

wrought upon a human mind, reared themselves grimly toward the stars,

and out of their fringing forests came now and then the roar of some

king animal, or the melting cry of a night-bird. Little by little the

moon paled and the stars grew dim, and a white mist rose over the

far-flowing river. The cold breath of dawn was upon the world, and in

its inimitable stillness the slave, wakened perhaps by the throbbing

of his own pulses, opened his eyes dully, and shivered and then rose

and stood staring down into the pool, struggling to free himself from

the bonds of oblivion and of sleep. When the memory of the past night

opened before him, it was as if he contemplated the undoing of another

man. He made no attempt, he had no wish, to think or to reflect upon

himself. The dawn was upon him—the sacred hour. Already, in the east,

a pale, clear light had lifted itself upon the horizon. One or two

silent birds—kites—floated over the walls of the water palace and

began to sink slowly into the depth of the plain. In the village a

dog howled, an ass brayed. Instinctively the spectator inclined his

ear for the muezzin’s call to prayer. But there was audible only the

flutelike note of the newly wakened koïl. The east brightened. The

clouds over the Vindhyas grew rosy, and the river mist was tinged

with gold. In the fresh morning air Fidá could perceive how his brain

burned, how his head throbbed. His body was racked with misery, but

there was a great clearness in his mind:—no searching, no thinking,

only a sudden upliftment and a simple sense of gratitude to nature for

this, her hour. Prayer was not upon his lips; but at last it lay in his

heart:—the great natural prayer that the first Hindoo, waking on his

world two thousand years before, had felt and could not utter.

The hour was advancing. The line of clouds above the northeast hills

changed from pale pink to a fiery rose-color that shed a glow over the

whole plateau, and haloed the man who stood, with his white-clothed

arms upraised, drinking in the purity around him. When at last the sun

pushed its edge over the horizon, it was invisible to Fidá; but he

knew, from the gradual disappearance of the delicate vapors, from the

sudden quieting of the birds, the _sense_ of day, that the mystic

dawn was over. Then, at last, Fidá realized suddenly that he was faint

with weariness and parched with thirst. Slowly he took his way back to

the palace, thinking not at all, only passively longing for rest. His

walk over, he stopped for a moment at the well, then went at once to

his own room, and, thankfully remembering that every one would rise

late to-day, threw himself on his bed and sank into another stupor-like

sleep. How long it was before he regained a vague consciousness, he did

not know; but he found two men standing over him, and one he recognized

as the Rajah. The sight of his face caused Fidá a dull surprise; but he

returned into the stupor without having uttered a word. After that his

rest seemed to be broken by various dire sensations and many monstrous

dreams. When his eyes opened, he always found Ahmed, and sometimes

Churi, near at hand; and, comforted by their presence, realizing that,

with them, delirium would be safe, he resigned himself. He knew that

he was very ill. Every one else knew it. Churi was exerting his utmost

skill; though he never once thought of the ruby. It did not remotely

occur to him to try that as a remedy. Three or four weeks passed

away, and then the fever abated a little, and gradually it came to be

understood that the Rajah’s favorite slave would live. By degrees his

strength, wofully depleted by the reckless strain he had put upon it

for so long, came back; and by the end of January he made a feeble

appearance again. He soon discovered that his sickness had not been

thought unusual by any one, since in his ravings he had betrayed the

fact that he had spent a night on the ground near the water palace.

Indeed, it would have been strange if the fever that lurks in all damp

night mists in western India had not made him a victim of his own

imprudence.

This view of the matter brought a great relief to Fidá. Perhaps, after

all, the incident of the curse had been just the wild dream of a sick

man. Perhaps those sinister words had been spoken by his own heart.

Perhaps.—Perhaps.—Perhaps. But, unnaturally, after Fidá was up and

about again, he did not get well. There were days when it seemed as

if his old-time vitality were returning to him; but there were many

more when he felt as if, by no possibility, could he bear the weight

of his limbs: when, racked with an inward fever that penetrated to the

very bone, he dragged himself about only by a superhuman effort. Yet,

unspeakably dreading that time when he must face the end, the slave

made every effort to conceal his illness, forcing himself to much

that seemed impossible for a man in his condition. One thing only he

could not do. He could not see Ahalya. Now, in the light of their past

vital relationship, he realized that he could no longer attempt his

former rôle. Day and night, it is true, he longed for her sympathy,

her tenderness, the touch of her gentle hands. But in return for her

ministrations he could give her nothing—nothing but the weary plaints

of a sick man. And so, steeling his heart to loneliness, he went his

way, blindly and dumbly, yet still, after the pathetic human custom,

hoping that life held yet a few empty years for him.

When, with mid-February, the spring appeared, Ahalya could no longer

bear her unhappiness, and one evening sent Churi to Fidá, bidding

him come to her. It was a summons that could not be refused; and, in

the early darkness, he stole to her rooms by the little courtyard.

Alas! How many, many times had he come to her thus in highest joy!

How differently to-night he came! In each heart there was dread, and

fear:—in hers that he long since tired of her, in his that she could

no longer care for him. When he appeared she was alone, standing at

the end of the room by her narrow bed, her face turned to the window

through which he entered. Seeing him, she did not move, but her eyes

grew big with inquiry, and her mouth drooped a little. Fidá, who could

not look upon her without deep emotion, also stood silent till he could

command his voice. Then he said, gently, but without much expression:

“Thou hast sent for me. I have come.”

Ahalya’s lip quivered, pitiably; and she lowered her head, without

replying.

Fidá, watching her, moved forward a step or two. “Ranee—what is thy

grief?” he asked, putting her, by his appellation, infinitely far away.

Ahalya gave a sob that was like a scream, and, flinging herself face

down upon the divan, laughed and wept hysterically, but still without

speaking. Fidá, bewildered, miserable, yet hoping something that he

dared not voice, knelt at her side and longed to give her comfort;

restraining himself only by a great effort. She wept as long as she

would, and then suddenly ceased, lifted herself, and turned a burning

gaze on him.

“Faithless one,” she said, in a low, monotonous tone: “thou faithless,

infinitely despised! Did I not give myself to thee, for thee committing

the greatest sin? I loved thee, and my heart was true, and in thy long

sickness by day and night I prayed to the gods for thee, vowing that,

shouldst thou die, I would follow thee as becomes a widow; for in all

ways I have considered myself thy true wife. And after thine illness,

when I yearned unspeakably to comfort thee, didst thou come hither?

didst send one word to me, that still live only in the thought of

thee? Oh, tell me,” and her voice rose passionately, “who is thy new

love? What is the name of her on whom thy traitor kisses fall? O thou

wretched one—” her tone became a long, ungovernable wail, “O captive—O

Fidá—hast thou forgotten me?”

“For the soul of Allah, Ahalya, do not torture me! Ahalya, Ahalya—I am

true to thee! Look at me!”

Dropping his concealing cloak upon the floor, he stepped into the

glow of light under the hanging-lamp, the pitiless rays of which fell

directly across his emaciated and deathly face, out of which shone

his eyes, glittering with fever. Ahalya gave a low exclamation, which

he answered. “Yea, look upon my face. It is that of one that hath not

much longer here. I have not told thee, thou beloved of my soul, of the

curse that lies upon my race. That curse was given me by the Vindhyas

on the last night that we loved. In my heart I know well that I am

doomed. My strength is gone, and the weakness grows daily greater.

Shall I bring this misery upon thee? Shall I—”

But here he was stopped. Comprehending him at last, Ahalya, her eyes

shining with new-found peace, went to him and put her arms about his

wasted frame; and he, feeling no desire to resist, let himself be drawn

down upon the divan, his head pillowed on her breast, her strong,

young arms around him. “Beloved,” she murmured over him, and Fidá

gave himself up to her. As he lay, passive, motionless, one of his

hands wound in her curling hair, they talked together, scatteringly,

of many things. Both of them understood that their burning days were

forever at an end; that indeed of the quiet ones there were left not

many. But, for the moment, Fidá could look upon the future without

dread; and Ahalya was under the spell of too great a relief to face

new calamity at once. Both knew, indeed, that the situation might have

been infinitely worse. There might have come sudden parting:—death for

one, for the other the torture of long waiting. Instead, the future

was to be to them but a golden repetition of the golden past. And even

now their companionship could be resumed, their love only growing the

stronger as Fidá’s body became weak, since they were now bound by ties

of truth and unselfishness that no misrepresentation or sorrow or

suffering could break.

Thereafter ensued a quiet period of nearly four weeks. The spring was

advanced. The planting was over, and Mandu abloom. The sun’s rays grew

daily hotter, though as yet there was little discomfort from heat. It

was the time of year when all growing and living things love and mate;

but for Ahalya and Fidá it was the autumn of love. Their days were

filled with misgiving; for, as the inevitable end drew near, both came

to suffer a great anxiety about the manner of that end.

Nor did the late spring bring joy and peace to Mandu. With the advent

of gay birds from Ceylon, came also messengers from Dhár, in the north,

bringing word that Omar the Asra, with a Mohammedan army, had come out

of Delhi and was sweeping victoriously southward on his way to Mandu.

To this warning and covert appeal for aid, Rai-Khizar-Pál could not but

reply by gathering together his fighting men, and preparing to march.

Mandu was in a state of excitement; but there was no rejoicing that

their well-loved King must prepare to set out on a new campaign. The

ministers that were to be left to rule were unpopular; for this time

Ragunáth was not to accompany the army, but left co-regent with Manava

over the people. For many days these matters kept all the plateau in

a state of ferment; and there was perhaps only one person among them

all that viewed the proceedings with apathy. He, indeed, was one to

whom events might have been considered to be most important. Fidá

might not unreasonably have entertained some idea of being taken upon

the expedition in his position as King’s cup-bearer. But this hope,

or fear, was quickly killed; for Rai-Khizar-Pál valued his slave too

highly to run the risk of losing him by allowing him to come into

actual contact with his own people. Nor could Oriental flesh and blood

have been expected to withstand such temptation to escape.

It was on the twelfth of March that the Rajah, with his army, was

to set out upon his second campaign against the Mohammedans. On the

afternoon of the eleventh, Fidá was with young Bhavani when the Rajah

summoned him. It had been one of the slave’s most miserable days.

During his morning service he had taken care to keep himself as much as

possible behind his master; and now he dreaded the interview extremely.

There was, however, nothing for it but to obey the call; and, resigning

Bhavani to his attendants, he hurried away to the King’s private room,

where he found Manava and Kasya standing one on either side of the

royal divan. At the door Fidá performed his usual deep salaam, and was

motioned to come forward.

“Enter, Asra. I sent for thee. By the flocks of heaven, thou’rt sick

to-day! Hast no care for thyself, good slave?”

Fidá smiled, slightly and bitterly. “I have no need for care. I am in

health, O King,” said he.

“Tell me not that any man with visage so deathly is in health. Thine

appearance troubles me, for I repose great trust in thee, and I dare

not depart in fear of thy death. Speak, Manava,—what thinkest thou of

him?”

“He hath the appearance of a man very ill,” answered the minister,

thoughtfully regarding the slave.

“Fidá, for the space of a week keep to thy room, and let Churi and the

priests attend thee and bring thee back to strength again. Thou must

accept so much of aid, for thy look troubles me sorely.”

The Asra threw himself on the floor at the King’s feet, and once more

protested that his looks belied him, that he was perfectly able to

perform his usual tasks. And the Rajah, whose projects were upset by

the prospect of this slave’s illness, allowed himself to be persuaded

against his own judgment, and proceeded to the object of the audience.

“Fidá el-Asra, thou hast been in Mandu, in my service, scarce half a

year as yet; but because thou art of high birth and noble training, I

repose confidence in thee. I cannot take thee with me upon my campaign,

because I should fear to lose thee in the north. But, in leaving thee

behind, I am about to place thee in a position of great trust. Manava,

whom thou seest standing upon my right hand, is, in my absence, to be

part ruler of Mandu. To Kasya here, my faithful eunuch, I intrust the

guardianship of my women. To thee I give the last of my treasures, the

hope of Mandu: my son, Bhavani, the flower of my heart; to be taught

and guarded till my return. Thou shalt have full direction over him,

save only in those times when the Lady Malati, his mother, desires his

presence. Already Bhavani loves thee, Asra; and thy training makes thee

fitted to be his companion and his master in my absence. For this trust

that I repose in thee, give me thy fealty.”

Deeply touched by a mark of favor so little deserved, Fidá fell upon

his knees and pressed the Rajah’s foot with his brow. In that moment of

abasement he was very near to confession; and, had it not been for the

presence of the other two, Fidá might, at that moment, have opened up

his heart and told his lord all the story of his treachery and crime.

A moment’s swift reflection, however, brought with it the remembrance

of Ahalya; and in dread for her the impulse passed away, and he found

himself protesting incoherently his gratitude, his fidelity, and

his sorrow at the departure of the Rajah. Once more, before he was

dismissed, Rai-Khizar-Pál, noting anew his gaunt and pallid face,

expressed some concern for his health; and then, giving his hand to

his slave’s lips, sent him away. Fidá, his nature suddenly revolting

against himself, sought his room, flung himself face down upon his bed,

and there, in guilty misery, poured out some sort of inchoate prayer of

remorse.

After an hour or two of meditation and quiet, the Asra took resolution

on a certain matter which he had been pondering for a long while.

Ever since he had become certain that the curse was actually on him,

he had wondered whether or not Churi had yet disposed of the ruby. It

was Churi’s place to have thought of the stone for him; and he hated

himself for the desire he had to touch it again. But it had apparently

never occurred to the eunuch to use the blessed jewel as a remedy;

and, as often as the thought came to Fidá, he put it resolutely from

him in shame. By this time, however, his hunger to gaze upon the charm

had grown great and fierce. He felt an intense desire to live; and,

believing the means of health to be within easiest reach, what wonder

that his temptation came again and again? This evening, in view of the

new trust, which he had the strongest desire honorably to keep, the

temptation suddenly overcame him, and, putting away his pride, perhaps

even his self-respect, he went to seek out the doctor.

Churi was in his own room, eating. Looking up from his food, he gave

Fidá his usual easy salute:

“Vishnu favor thee! I am told that thou’rt to be given sole charge of

the young prince. Truly, Asra, the King loves thee as well as his wife.

Wilt deign to eat with me?”

Fidá did not respond to the ill-timed raillery. He stood leaning

against the wall, gazing at the eunuch with so strange an expression

that Churi changed his mood.

“Thou’rt ill to-night,” said he, more gently.

“Yes, I am ill,” answered the Asra, in a low, harsh tone. “I am dying,

Churi.”

“Dying! Why shouldst thou die, lover?”

“Allah! Thou knowest why.”

“Ah! The old legend. Dost really believe—that—”

“Canst thou doubt that I am cursed?”

They remained facing each other, silent, staring. No further words

were necessary. Churi knew very well now why he had come; but he sat

struggling with himself, for he was disturbed. Nevertheless Fidá’s

ghastly face pled strongly. After a few moments, during which the slave

suffered under his degradation, Churi rose, walked to the shadowy

corner of the room, bent over for a moment or two, working in the earth

of the floor, and then came back to Fidá with the gold box in his hand.

Fidá, looking into the unmatched eyes, saw animosity in one and scorn

in the other.

“There. Take back thy gift.” Churi held the box out to him.

To the eunuch’s astonishment, Fidá deliberately accepted it, rolled

the ruby out into his hand, and for a moment feasted his eyes on it.

Then he pressed it to his breast, shut his eyes, and moved his lips in

prayer. When the prayer ended, he replaced the jewel in its case, and

once more held it out to Churi, who had stood in silence, watching him.

“I thank thee,” said Fidá, simply.

Churi looked surprised anew. “Wilt thou not keep it?” he asked.

“Ah! Thou thinkest me such a dog?”

“Will that help thee—just the moment of it?”

“I do not know; yet it seems to me that the very sight of it hath

helped me.”

A second time Churi held out the box, this time voluntarily. “Take it

and keep it on thy person for a week.”

Fidá drew back.

“Nay, I wish it. I trust thee.”

“But it is thine. How hast thou not already sold it?”

“That is not easy. I dare not show it in Mandu. But in the month

of April will come a man from the north, a travelling merchant of

Rajputana, that comes each year, bringing with him silks, rugs, gold

work, and gems of the costliest kind. I know him well, and he will take

the ruby and give me my freedom. Therefore thou seest there is time for

thee to recover. Take the stone at least for the space of a week; and

then if thou art better, thou shalt keep it till the merchant comes.”

There was only friendliness in Churi’s tone. Fidá’s simplicity had

disarmed him. Seeing that the favor was done willingly, Fidá accepted

it; and, when he walked away from the eunuch’s house, the little golden

box lay in its old place in his girdle.

Next day, at noon, all Mandu thronged about the palace and along the

old road to witness the departure of the Rajah and his army. It was

indeed a brilliant pageant that set forth upon the long and dangerous

journey to the north. Fidá, in a throng of slaves, stood against the

south wall of the great courtyard, and watched the companies form. At

high noon Rai-Khizar-Pál, attended by his two ministers, who walked

one on either side of him, came out of the palace, and was greeted

with tumultuous acclamations by the throng of soldiers and people.

And the Lord of Mandu was unquestionably worthy of admiration. Never

had Fidá seen him more magnificent. His large, well-proportioned body

was clad in half-armor, of a purely ornamental type, under which he

wore a fine, white garment heavy with red and silver embroidery. On

his head was a white turban from which rose a black aigrette fastened

with a pin glittering with rubies. His horse, a magnificent animal,

in trappings of black, red, and silver, with the small double-drum

rimmed in silver placed before his saddle to mark his rank, was held in

waiting. After a few inaudible words with the regents, and an effective

parting from each, he walked swiftly to his steed, sprang upon it

without aid, caught up his bridle, swept an arm toward his body-guard

which immediately galloped up and surrounded him, and then, amid the

renewed shouts of his people, rode rapidly out of the courtyard, and

began the march. He was followed by Purán, in more serviceable costume,

surrounded by a group of what might be called aides; and then by the

army itself:—first, two hundred horse, and then five hundred foot, the

whole of the forces of Mandu. Slowly, line by line, they formed in the

limited space, and wound away after their leaders, spear-heads and

head-pieces flashing in the sunshine, men and animals alike fresh and

vigorous—eager for what lay before them.

To Fidá, still leaning against the courtyard wall, this sight of armed

and armored men passing out to honorable combat, was bitter indeed.

All the warrior in him rose and struggled for place in his enfeebled

frame. He was sick with the servility of his life. He loathed the

despicable part he had played. Every soldier that passed him seemed

to him to walk over his heart, bringing back vivid pictures of what

had been, when the smell of battle was sweet to his nostrils, and the

battle-cry the fairest music his ears could know. Once he had been a

man! Now—now—he would not answer the question of his conscience. When

the hour was over, when the last foot-soldier had passed out of the

courtyard and was lost in the winding road, he drew a long, heavy sigh,

and moved his eyes. The first thing they encountered was the figure of

Ragunáth, standing near him, gazing fixedly in the direction of the

departed host; and Fidá saw with wonder the expression on his face: an

expression of deep-seated relief, joy,—nay, rather, triumph. The Asra

stared yet more earnestly, a sudden apprehension striking home. Was it

possible that, at last, Rai-Khizar-Pál being gone, Ragunáth meant to

taste the well-guarded fruit? Fidá’s lips shut tight. Was there finally

to be an open struggle between them? Was it to be his happiness once

to perform a real service for the King? Wondering, hoping, hating, he

stood there, nor heeded how he was grinding the golden box deep into

the flesh of his left side.

CHAPTER IX

ASRA FIGHTS AGAIN

The departure of the Rajah and his army wrought, at first, little

visible change in the life of the palace at Mandu. The zenana was a

little duller, the ceremonies less formal, the work of the royal court

less arduous;—for Manava, though a just man, had not his over-lord’s

popularity as a judge. To Fidá, however, the absence of Rai-Khizar-Pál

made a marked difference; and his life was almost entirely changed. He

had a new sense of freedom; and he saw Ahalya oftener than ever. Since

she was no longer subject to her husband’s will, both she and Fidá

had a much greater feeling of confidence, but also a greater sense of

dishonor than when he was at hand. The duties of the Asra, meantime,

were light, and less uncertain than they had been. All the morning,

and, indeed, nearly to mid-afternoon, he was with Bhavani. But when

their various tasks and pursuits were over, the young prince generally

elected to spend the rest of his time in the zenana, where he was the

spoiled pet of twenty or thirty women. In this way many hours were

unquestioningly open for the slave and Ahalya; but Fidá was shortly

made aware that most of them must be hours of sadness. One week from

the evening on which he had had his last talk with Churi, he reappeared

in the room of the eunuch, who, as usual at that hour, was within. The

Asra walked up to him, and silently tendered him the golden box. Churi

looked quickly into his face—and his eyes remained fixed there.

“The charm—hath not worked?” he asked.

“No,” answered Fidá, shortly.

“Thou’rt not better?—Thou’rt worse?”

“Yes.”

“But the reason of it?” Churi looked down at the treasure now lying in

his own hand, and a faint smile stole across his lips. “The charm—is

gone?”

“I sold it. I sold the birthright of the Asra. I have doubly cursed my

race. It is fitting, indeed, that I should expiate the sin by death!”

“Nay, despairing one. We shall cure thee yet. ’Tis but a lingering

fever. I shall try to help thee. There is a certain draught of herbs—”

Fidá interrupted him with a sort of laugh. “Nay, Churi, spare thy

skill. Fever-draughts will not avail against the curse of the Saint.

There. I thank thy generosity. I thank thee, also, Churi, for all the

rest thou hast done for me. I tell thee now in the face of death, that,

were all to do over, I would face a thousand ends for half the glory

I have known in her. And all this, I owe to thee. Had I mine uncle’s

riches in addition to the ruby, they should be thine. And yet—Allah

comfort her when I am gone! That—that, Churi, makes me suffer. Oh, I

talk folly in my weakness. Heed me not. A peaceful rest to thee!” And,

turning on his heel, Fidá was gone.

Time crept slowly along, and the Asra, absorbed in his duties and in

his increasing weakness, took little note of the many things that

passed about him. Ragunáth, busied with his share of government, was

now doubly occupied with certain plans and desires of a private nature.

It was a strange thing that Rai-Khizar-Pál had never seemed to suspect

what all the rest of the palace knew: that Ragunáth was, and for a long

time had been, deeply enamoured of Ahalya, who, six months before, had

been almost at the stage of returning his affection. But for the past

four months, indeed since the sharp repulse he had met with from the

lady herself, Ragunáth had had the wisdom to make no attempt to see

her. Now, at last, however, the time seemed favorable for a renewal

of his efforts; and the mere possibility of success roused the man’s

long-stifled passion with unconquerable fierceness. Rai-Khizar being

well out of reach, Ragunáth was now a great power in the government.

Manava he considered almost unimportant, but pliable. And so did he

turn over matters in his mind, that he finally arrived at a casual,

well-arranged talk with his fellow-minister, begun about servants in

general, and continuing to Kasya in particular, who was getting old,

who would be well replaced by some younger, more vigorous man:—Kripa,

perhaps? He, Ragunáth, felt that the whole matter might be adjusted

very simply, and would himself undertake it and its responsibility.

Manava listened to him, seemed struck with the idea, considered it for

a little, in his grave, inscrutable way, and then said some pleasant

things to his coadjutor. Nevertheless, Ragunáth, on retiring, found

that his point had not been gained; found that he had an impression

that Manava considered the whole affair absurd; but was able to lay his

memory on not one single unpleasant word that the other had spoken.

He began then to perceive that he had underestimated his companion in

office.

The failure of his scheme was a serious disappointment, and proved for

a time a check upon his plans. Review the situation as he would, he

could see no point in Ahalya’s guardianship that had not already been

tried and found invincible. Considerably involved in other matters,

he was forced to leave this, that was nearest his heart, alone for

a little; though her image was scarcely out of his mind by day or

night. And with all his brain’s ferment, Ragunáth found no hope of

action until, for her own reasons, Chance, the great goddess, stepped

scornfully in, and gave him what no scheming could have brought about.

Spring was now far along, and March at an end. It was the time of year

when all young things were at the fulness of their vitality; for in

India the late spring, before the coming of intolerable heat, is the

real summer of the growing world. All nature was filled with vivid

life. Each lightest thread of zephyr carried with it a shower of golden

pollen, blown for floral marriage-beds. Birds and beasts had long since

mated. And by night the bulbul in the champak bushes sang to his mate

throbbing songs of the children that were coming to them from the eggs

over which she brooded. Lutes in the hands of poets attuned themselves

to the triumph of love; and, under the universal spell, only Fidá could

not rise to it. On the afternoon of the third of April, the Arab had

been with Ahalya for a moment only, showing himself too miserable to

linger at her side; and she had sent him sadly away to rest alone, and

perhaps sleep back into a semblance of life. Left to herself, Ahalya

found it impossible to be still. She was young, and there was no curse

on her to keep the summer from flowing in her veins. Neila was asleep

somewhere in the zenana. She must have some one to speak to; and, even

as she pondered, the young Bhavani bounded in to her with a fascinating

and unwise proposal. Some slave, he said, had told him that this year,

in the water-palace pool, there was a blossom of blue lotos, the flower

said to be found only in paradise. Would she not go out with him to see

if it were really there? Ahalya seized on the idea with alacrity. She

longed to get into the living world; and Bhavani was delighted with

her enthusiasm. The Ranee veiled herself, and then, calling no one to

attend them, they hurried into the little courtyard, out of it into

the north wing, and so across a corner of the great court and into the

road to the water palace. And, as Fate had decreed, Ragunáth, sitting

at council in the great audience chamber, caught, through its open

doorway, one fleeting glimpse of Ahalya’s veiled figure, recognized it

instantly with the divining eyes of desire, and began to calculate how

soon he should be able to follow her.

Unconscious of the ill-omened gaze, careless of the recklessness and

the indecorum of walking abroad unattended, Ahalya went on, hand in

hand with the worshipful boy, joyously drinking in the exquisite

air of the late afternoon. The sun almost touched the river in the

west, and the air was suffused with rosy gold. From the south came a

fragrant breeze, laden with the spicy breath of far Ceylon. There was

a twittering chorus of birds. The trees and shrubs on every side were

clad in foliage in the highest stage of fresh beauty. The tamarind

and the willow vied with each other in grace. The bamboo was tufted

with palest silver-green. The almond trees had finished blossoming,

and the grass beneath their branches was strewn with pinkish petals.

Here and there was a lilac shrub, heavy with clusters of pale purple

flowers—emblems of Persia. And in sunny places the grass was strewn

with white and golden gillyflowers, with occasional starry narcissi and

daffodils. The whole world was abloom, and the air heavy with perfume.

As she proceeded, Ahalya’s languid delight increased to a species of

intoxication. She was bewildered by the beauty of the world, enchanted

by the high, pure notes of the birds, by the whisper of winds in the

trees, by the heavy hum of drunken bees, by the murmur of distant,

rushing water. Bhavani, a little overcome by her manner, presently

broke away from her to run after a new-come butterfly; and Ahalya

walked on alone to the water palace. Arrived there, and seeing Bhavani

happily racing away at a little distance, the Ranee seated herself

beside the pool, almost in the very spot where, months before, Fidá had

stood and listened to the curse that welled from out the mountains,

whose sides were now swathed in a bluish haze, that grew gradually

golden in the light of the setting sun. Here, in the shade of the

willows and bamboos that overhung the basin, Ahalya’s mood changed, and

her thoughts were no longer of the joy of the young summer.

She thought on darker things: of the plight in which she was, of

the worse one that was shortly to come to her. In her love of Fidá

Ahalya was now, and, after the first day, had been, remorseless and

surprisingly careless of discovery. This was all in accordance with the

training of the child-woman, who, though she did not know it, had loved

the Rajah as a daughter only, and had turned from him to the young Arab

with all the truth and all the womanhood in her. There could never be

for her another like Fidá. And she knew now that the end of love was

very near. She had been denied its expression for a long time; but

while its object lived she did not care. Now, however, in the midst

of this brilliant scene, she suddenly perceived how weak, how worn he

was. And it was borne in upon her that the pallor of his face was the

pallor of death. How soon would the end come? How would it come? Could

she show her love for him in performing the suttee? Would there be

opportunity? or would he be burned, like a dog, on a handful of sticks,

in the city of the dead at the other end of the plateau, far from her

reach? The thought was too hideous to be maintained; but the shadow

of it darkened over her heart. How was it possible that such dreadful

things could be? How—

She was interrupted in her morbid revery by Bhavani, who, tired of

butterflies, came to drag her round the pools in search of the blue

lily. Ahalya was not now in the humor for this amusement; and Bhavani

became slightly peremptory in his demands. So, finally, she released

herself from him, and, while he ran on, to the other side of the

building, she, desirous of returning to her meditation, melancholy

though it was, began slowly to pace up and down the flowery turf.

Bhavani was quite out of sight; and Ahalya herself, her back toward the

road, stood gazing out over the sunset plain below, when there was a

sudden step behind her, and a voice exclaimed in her ear:

“Can it be that I have found the embodied spirit of the summer?”

She turned sharply, and found herself face to face with Ragunáth. Her

first impression was one of disgust at the expression on his face; her

first instinct to escape as quickly as possible from his presence.

“I am not a spirit at all. I have lingered here too long and must go at

once. Your favor, sir. Let me pass!” She motioned him imperiously out

of her way; but, to her amazement, he only moved as she did, so as to

be always in her path.

He smiled, regarding her half-admiringly, half-respectfully, but kept

his position till, stamping one small foot upon the ground, she cried,

angrily: “Out of my path, my Lord Ragunáth!”

“Nay, be not so hurried, Ranee,” he returned, mildly.

Annoyed by the presumption which his tone belied, she lifted her eyes

and looked him fairly in the face. A shudder ran through her frame. At

last she realized that he did not intend to let her go: that her wishes

were now of no consequence. Instantly she was alive to her situation.

She looked around her, terrified, desperate, and perceived, at a little

distance along the wall of the palace young Bhavani, standing quite

still, staring at the figure of the newcomer. Immediately Ahalya began

waving her hand to him:

“Bhavani! Bhavani! Run quickly! Seek thy master!”

Ragunáth grasped her roughly by the arm. “Silence!” he cried. And

indeed she was silent, for, even as her tormentor spoke, she saw

Bhavani turn and start like a deer in the direction of the palace. And

Ahalya knew well to whom he would go first of all.

In a measure relieved, understanding that now she had only to gain

time, her wits rose to the situation, and she turned her face to

Ragunáth’s frown, and laughed. “Art thou so angry that I have sent the

boy away? Wouldst thou have had him stand there gazing at us? Even

Radha despatched her maidens ere she let Krishna look upon her face

unveiled. Hast thou not heard that tale, my lord?” She smiled on him

incomparably.

Ragunáth’s reply was a laugh. He, who trusted no living man, was in an

instant thrown off his guard by a woman’s trembling coquetry. “I have

heard the tale.—What lover hath not? Yet it hath never been sung to me

in the young summer, and by one resembling Radha as thou dost. Sing to

me, then, beautiful one, of the loves of Radha and Krishna.”

“But I have neither lute nor harp.”

“It matters not. There is no instrument that would dare accompany thy

voice.”

So Ahalya, her heart throbbing with fright, her whole body quivering

with loathing of the man who walked so closely at her side, began to

sing. And as she sang, the daylight sank from the sky; for the sun had

set, and darkness, most terrible to her plight, was upon the land. She

sang the eleventh Sarga of the great epic: that of the union of Krishna

and Radha, which she had so often poured into the ears of him she

delighted to call her god. And even now, at the joyous triumph in the

words, her heart was sighing at the emptiness of her love. This, to the

music Vasanta and the mode Yati, is what she sang:

“‘Follow, happy Radha, follow,

In the quiet falling twilight,

The steps of him who followed thee

So steadfastly and far—’”

“That is true, most beautiful Radha. Let thy fair feet henceforth

follow me through the land of delight,” murmured Ragunáth, in her ear.

Her voice shook as, without replying, she went on:

“‘Let us bring thee where the banjulas

Have spread a roof of crimson

Lit up by many a marriage lamp

Of planet, sun, and star.’

“‘For the hours of doubt are over

And thy glad and faithful lover

Hath found the road by tears and prayers

To thy divinest side—’”

“‘And thou wilt not deny him,’”

broke in Ragunáth, whispering,

“‘One delight of all thy beauty;

But yield up open-hearted

His pearl, his prize, his bride!’”

Ahalya shuddered again and was silent, wondering what evil genius had

made her begin that song. She began to fear, desperately, that Bhavani

had not understood: that she was really left alone, at the mercy of

this man whom she feared as much as she hated. Therefore, filled with

terror at what she had made herself do, she suddenly determined to

attempt escape; and, on the instant darting from Ragunáth’s side, she

started, at the top of her speed, across the grass, in the direction

of the road. Ragunáth, taken wholly by surprise, stood for a second

staring after her, and then hurried in pursuit. Unhampered by his

garments, and far more used to swift exercise than she, he overtook her

halfway to the road, and caught her round the waist in an iron clasp.

She gave a faint cry, and, at his touch, strove wildly to escape it.

But Ragunáth was not now in a mood to let her go. Grasping her yet more

firmly, he lifted her, and, in the starry darkness, carried her across

the open space and into a little copse of champaks and wild cotton

trees at one side of the empty lawn. Here began a fierce struggle.

Ahalya fought like one possessed of a demon; and Ragunáth was a little

aghast at the strength of her fury. Fearing to hurt her, and realizing

that at this rate her strength could not last, he devoted himself only

to defence and the prevention of her escape, reserving his force for

the time of her exhaustion. And indeed Ahalya presently found herself

in a sad plight. Her strength would not last above a minute more. Only

one hope was left now; and that was desperate enough. Lifting her head,

she uttered two piercing screams. And—to Ragunáth’s consternation—she

was answered by a fierce cry, as a man’s figure dashed through the

trees to where they stood.

Ahalya had only an instant in which to recognize the gaunt form of

Fidá. She caught one view of his face in the gloom, alight with such

fury as she had never dreamed he possessed. Then the two men were

locked together in mortal struggle.

Broken and weak with the strain and terror of the last half-hour,

horror-stricken at what was happening now, Ahalya stood like one

entranced, watching without sound or movement the combat going on

before her. She could not, in the darkness, distinguish between the

two forms rolling together on the ground. The men fought without a

sound:—Ragunáth with the strength of passion, Fidá with a final fury of

jealousy and despair. It lasted only three or four minutes. Then the

woman, who, in her terror, stood rocking her body back and forward,

holding both hands to the sides of her head as if that helped her to

suppress the wild screams on her lips, saw one figure suddenly rise

above the other, draw a weapon from his girdle and plunge it once,

twice, thrice, into the breast of the other who was struggling to lift

himself from the ground. Instantly, with a low, gurgling cry, the body

fell back. And Ahalya, peering like a mad-woman into the dusk at the

living man, whispered hoarsely:

“Fidá—Fidá—is it thou?”

And he, who was standing straight and still, his arms hanging at his

sides, answered quietly: “Yes, Ahalya. I am here. I have killed him.”

CHAPTER X

THE SONG OF NARMÁDA

For a long time they stood there, in the stillness of the night,

looking at each other in a kind of lethargy; while between them, on

the ground, lay the body of Ragunáth, gradually chilling, the blood

from its three wounds still running thinly down into the pool beside

it. Around and over all three of them myriad fireflies fluttered, like

stars of the under-world, setting a ghastly glow over the ghastly

scene. Fidá’s heart was beating very faintly now. He was obliged to

breathe in little gasps. But he was not thinking of this. His mind was

groping. He was still in a great darkness when Ahalya came over to him,

walking carefully to avoid the blood, and laid both hands on his arm.

“Let us go back to the palace,” she whispered.

Fidá shook his head. “I think I shall not go back to the palace. I

think I shall go on,” he answered.

“On! Whither?”

“Up. Up to be judged.”

“Fidá! Beloved! You will come with me.”

But the man was not to be moved by her tone, which was such a one as is

used to a sick child. Possibly Fidá was mad, or very near it; but it

was a quiet madness, and he was sure of his desires.

“Alas, Ahalya, what wrong I have done thee! All the wickedness that

man can accomplish I have accomplished. Wherefore I am going up before

Allah. But thou must not grieve for me, thou fairest of all women.

Thou knowest well that I was very near the end. Most beautiful—most

sweet—lotos-lidded, fear not lest I should not take upon my soul the

double crime. Thou shalt be freed from all sin in the eyes of Allah and

Mohammed. It is the last joy of love that I can perform for thee.”

He spoke in a quiet, solemn tone that frightened the woman

inexpressibly. As he paused, she threw herself before him, clasping his

knees.

“O my lord—O beloved of my heart—thou Krishna—whither thou goest permit

that I go also! If thou art to appear before thy great god, suffer me

to remain at thy side. Spurn me not for that I am a woman. Did I not

vow to thee long since that, since thou wast my true husband, I, thy

faithful one, would not suffer thee to die alone, but, performing the

suttee with mine own hand, would accompany thy spirit to its blest

abode? And I swear now by the faithfulness of Radha, and by Lakshmi and

Devi and the divine Ushas, that, if thou goest forth alone into the

presence of the gods, I will surely follow thee. Wherefore, thou, who

hast loved me well, grant me a last boon. Let me go forth and die with

thee, that we may be judged together, and, if thou lovest me still,

together endure our punishment.”

“Consider thy words, Ahalya. Just now thou’rt not thyself. Return to

the palace and dwell there quietly, and let peace come into thy heart.

I absolve thee from that old vow of love. There is no one that could

suspect thee of this murder. I have done it; and this my absence will

proclaim. Bhavani knows nothing. He is now with Churi, and thou canst

tell the child what thou wilt. Return, then, to the house of the Rajah,

and forget—and forgive—my sins.”

“Nay! Nay, nay, nay!” It was the first time that either of their voices

had been raised. “I will not be absolved from my oath! I will not be

left alone to face the terrors of Kutashala Máli! Take me with thee,

else, by mine own hand, I die alone. Oh consider the sweetness of death

together! Consider the terror of death alone!”

“Again—I plead with thee!”

“No, no. If thou diest, I also will die.”

“But thou knowest, Ahalya, that I cannot live. Thou knowest that

to wait will mean either execution by torture for the murder of a

Brahman-Kshatriya, or a long and agonizing death through my curse. And

I, coward-like, perhaps, choose here a swifter and more merciful end.

Yet, if thou wilt, I will return with thee to the palace and wait there

for what may come.”

For an instant Ahalya considered. Then she answered: “Nay, beloved, I

will not have thee return to the palace. Only take me with thee that I

may not die alone.”

“And if I took thee with me? How should we die?”

“What was it that thou wouldst have done, going up alone?”

“I have here the dagger that slew Ragunáth.”

Ahalya shuddered. “Not that! Listen. Thou knowest that by my people

there are certain waters held sacred to the gods, so that those that

die in them are cleansed of many sins. Such a stream is the broad

Narmáda, which to us is the little Gunga, the promised sacred flood.

Let us, then, under cover of night, go down to the river and there, in

the same moment, die together—thou in my arms, I in thine.”

Fidá reflected. “How shall we reach the river?” he asked.

“I have heard that there is a way down the rocks of the plateau at this

end. When the plain is reached, it is an easy walk to the river. By

dawn we should be there if—if only—thou hast the strength.”

“I shall have the strength. Did I not slay this man?” Fidá’s pride

was touched; and perhaps, after all, just this little, human vanity,

decided them. “I have the strength. But thou, most beautiful, canst

thou endure this long and painful journey now? Faintest thou not for

food? Will my arm be enough to uphold thee by the way?”

“If I fall, Fidá, thou shalt kill me where I lie and thyself proceed.

Nay, I shall not fail thee. Come. Let us seek the path down the cliff.”

There was a moment or two of delay while the knife was plucked from

the body of the dead man, and Ahalya removed a part of her hampering

drapery. Then, after one solemn embrace, they started. It was the time

of the month when there was no moon; but the stars, nowhere in the

world more brilliant than here, shed a faint, steady light over the

quiet earth. The descent of the great cliff was begun at a point almost

immediately behind the water-palace; and they soon found themselves

occupied enough to forget the tragic circumstances of the journey, as

they picked a fearful and uncertain way from point to point, from rock

to rock, down, through the night, from high Mandu to the plain. What

chance it was that stayed their destruction, they scarcely knew. But

certainly it was a miracle that, in the first five minutes, they were

not dashed headlong down the whole depth. Fidá’s knees shook under him.

Had it not been for Ahalya, he would have ended all just here, swiftly.

But, with an effort that he felt to be the final summing up of all

his forces, he went on, the woman following uncomplainingly, fleetly,

silently. It lacked an hour to midnight when they reached the plain,

and, looking back and up, wondered at what they had accomplished.

Now they threw themselves upon the ground, for a few moments of

necessary recuperation. Ahalya was drooping with sleep, which Fidá

dared not permit her to indulge. He realized, vaguely, that the

unnatural strength on which he was enduring must break soon; and by

the time it was gone, they must be at the river-bank—the borderland of

eternity. So, after a few moments, he bent over her, whispering:

“Up, beloved—up, and on! We must reach the river by dawn. There, my

Ahalya, thou mayest sleep—we may both sleep—long and undisturbed.”

And Ahalya, heeding him in all things, rose and put her hand in his,

and they passed into the night again, over the plain, toward the

distant river.

* * * * *

Dawn, white, mistlike, broke slowly upon the world, over the plains

of Dhár, where, to the south of the city, two armies were encamped:

one, that which guarded the city walls, the joined forces of the

Lords of Dhár and of Mandu; the other, Omar el-Asra, with five

thousand Mohammedan warriors out of Delhi. In the earliest dim shadow

of daylight these two armies stirred, woke, and swiftly prepared

them for the day; till, when the first shafts of the sun tipped the

Indian spear-heads with red fire, there rose from either line a low,

deep battle-cry,—from the Indian ranks the oath of the gods: “May

the bright bolts of Indra, the discus of Vishnu, the lingam of Siva

protect us to-day!” and from the other side the cry that was echoing

over all the civilized world, from Granada to Benares, the great

shibboleth of conquest and carnage, before which the earth bowed:

“La-Ilaha-il-lal-laha!” “There is no god but Allah!” a god of violence

and death. And while these shouts still echoed to the sky, the two

lines began a slow advance, till, ere they met, a great cloud of

sun-bright dust whirled up and around them, and the haze of impending

battle closed them in from mortal sight.

* * * * *

Light lifted itself also over the swift-flowing, holy Narmáda, on the

north bank of which stood the man and the woman, hand in hand, silently

watching the coming of the day. They were exhausted with the horror

and the travail of the long night; but their minds were now above the

physical state. That no longer mattered. Fidá stood staring at the

slowly lightening waters, his face fixed and very stern. Ahalya also

was still, leaning on the arm of her lover, her eyes closed. She was

not praying, nor did she even think. Of what was there to think? The

past lay behind them, ended. Of the future there was none. The present

was painless. Like Fidá, she was tacitly waiting for the first rays of

the sun to mark that spot in the water where It must come.

Just before the first finger of gold was raised over the Vindhyas, just

before the armies in distant Dhár began their advance, Fidá turned to

Ahalya beside him, and murmured, softly:

“Beloved, it is too terrible for thee. I cannot let thee die here,

thus. See, it is cold, this mountain water. It comes from far above.”

“Hush, Fidá. We are to go up together. Thou hast promised it,” she

replied quietly, her lips barely moving.

Fidá uttered a groan. “It is not I—it is not for myself I falter. But

thou—there is no sickness upon thee—”

“Look! look, beloved, it is the sun! See where it makes a bed of gold

upon the stream! Lift me up, Fidá—carry me out—carry me out and lay me

there—upon our golden bed.”

She turned to him, and he, looking into her upraised face, could

urge no more. Lifting her, with a last effort, gazing the while deep

into her unrepentant eyes, he sought for the last time her lips, and

then—with a setting of all his muscles—stepped forward into the stream.

The rush of water, even near the shore, was very swift. It was scarce

up to his waist, no more than covering Ahalya’s ankles, when, suddenly,

he knew that he could not breast the current. There was a second of

agonized realization—a scream from the woman as she was plunged into

the icy flood. Then came a moment’s struggle with the resistless,

irresistible force, which at one time covered the whirling bodies and

again exposed them to the air. Suddenly Ahalya was swept into the arms

of Fidá. With the last instinct of life, the hold of each tightened

about the other. Then, in the tumult of the running river, came a

mighty stillness. The current might toss them as it would. They were

alone and one, and there was for them a moment of indissoluble peace

before they were called up to answer for their deed.

* * * * *

And now, upon the plain of Dhár, the battle-lines had met, and were

mingled in an inextricable mass. Those watching from on high—Brahma,

Vishnu, Siva, and Allah—might, in the hideous mêlée, have been able

to distinguish one single combat, short, swift, decisive. There, in

the midst of the shouts, shrieks, and yells, encompassed by flashing

weapons and life-streams running red, two men, Omar el-Asra and

Rai-Khizar-Pál of Mandu, met together, fighting mace and mace, and,

later, sword and sword. One moment, only, in that chaos of duels, did

this endure. Then the great Rajah, husband of Ahalya the beautiful,

conqueror of an Asra prince, plunged forward from his saddle, his skull

cloven in two by the keen blade of the Mohammedan warrior.

Thus, in that fair April morning, by devious ways, four souls that had

been closely bound in their earth-life, went up and met together at

the throne of the dread judge:—Rai-Khizar-Pál, his sceptre laid down

forever; Ragunáth, his faithless minister, passion-spent at last; and

finally, still hand-in-hand, still unrepentant of their love, Fidá of

Yemen and the Ranee Ahalya, not now flushed with the sweet rose-hue of

her Iran.

BOOK II

SOUL-FIRE

“‘... Yes, who am I? God wot!

How often have I prayed to Heaven to tell me!—

Who am I, God?—But Heaven itself is mute.

Yet this I do know: whatsoe’er I be,

Hero or weakling, demigod or beast,

I am the outcast child of the bright Sun

That longs for home!—

A bundle of sorrow, weeping for the light

That stretches out its radiant arms in vain

And yearns for me!’”

—GERHARDT HAUPTMANN, “The Sunken Bell,” Act V.

CHAPTER I

THE SON OF GOKARNA

It was July; and in Bul-Ruknu, Vindhya-sheltered, the rains were over.

From now till September one could but avoid the open sunlight and sleep

as much as the human system would permit. This afternoon the heat

poured blindly over the mud and bamboo village, and even animals and

children had deserted the streets and sought shelter from the molten

sky. One woman, her head and body wrapped round in bright-colored

cotton, darted out of the close veranda of her own dwelling and

hurried swiftly down the street toward the spot where, set a little

off by itself, stood the largest and best-built house in the town.

Entering the veranda of this she found seated there, on a pile of straw

cushions, her half-sister, Kota, wife of Gokarna, the head-man, and at

the same time, which was unusual, chief priest of Siva, the village

deity.

Greetings passed between the two; and Kota, causing her sister to sit

beside her, clapped her hands for a slave who presently appeared in the

doorway, a timid, unkempt girl of fifteen.

“Bring us fruits, Jensa,” commanded her mistress. Then, as the girl

disappeared, she turned to Hilka: “’Tis six days since I have seen

thee. Are thy gods propitious?”

“Yesterday, at sacrifice, the omens for the harvest were bad. But

Gokarna has told thee that. How art thou?”

Kota stirred a little, uncomfortably, and lifted her languorous eyes to

her sister’s face. Just then the slave came back with custard-apples,

early mangoes, and pomegranates in a basket. Kota took them from her,

proffered the dish to her visitor, who accepted one of the mangoes, and

then, while both began to eat, Kota said slowly: “I am not happy, my

sister. My mind is troubled. I am filled with melancholy and foreboding

concerning the child. I see many strange visions in my sleep. The gods

refuse me peace.”

“Art thou thus, Kota? That is not right. Yes, I can see thou art not

well. Let Gokarna offer special sacrifice for thee.”

“He hath done so twice already since the _Pumsavana_. But ah,

Hilka, I cannot speak my heart to him. It seems to me as if my thoughts

were not my own. They are put into my mind by evil spirits. I fear

them, and I fear the end. Alas, shall the soul of this child be evil?

I fear it! I fear it!” She spoke with a nervous intensity that made

a strong impression upon Hilka, who knew well her sister’s lazy,

thoughtless temperament. It was the first time she had ever perceived

any strong feeling in her. Now she said anxiously: “Go to Naka, at

the end of the village, and get a charm from him to ward off the

_Devas_.”

“Hush! Gokarna is coming! Do not speak before him of charms, or he

would scold us both.”

Hilka, who had been sitting with her back to the street, turned

hastily, as Kota’s husband appeared in the veranda entrance:—a tall and

austere-looking Brahman, clad in a long, white garment. He came forward

at once to greet his wife, giving Hilka but a careless recognition;

for, to the head of the village, even his wife’s relatives were

scarcely worthy of attention from him. And Hilka’s visit was brought

to a sudden close; for no woman of Bul-Ruknu would, from choice, have

stayed long in the proximity of the Priest of Siva.

Kota bade her sister a quiet farewell, not asking her to come

again—rather taking that for granted. And when the visitor was gone,

she turned immediately to her husband, who touched her on the forehead,

answered briefly her questions concerning the day’s auguries, and

presently left her and went into the house.

Kota, knowing that it would be useless to follow him, too dreary at

heart to care whether or not he talked with her, returned to her

cushions and sat down again to gaze off into space at the swirling,

white heat-waves, and to dream, vaguely, of days that had never been.

For an Indian, Kota was a pretty woman, her eyes being very large and

soft, and her black hair, just now woven with yellow champak flowers,

thick and long. She was seventeen years old, and had been married for

three years. Moreover, she had been born a Brahman, and, in her married

life, had been highly honored; for, though until now she had been

childless, her husband had not taken another wife. Above all, Gokarna’s

parents had died in his early youth; so that Kota, at her marriage

made mistress of the finest house in Bul-Ruknu, had been also spared

that terror and curse of all young Indian women—the mother-in-law,

whose traditional duty it was to make the life of the young wife one of

perpetual misery.

At the time of her marriage, the girl Kota had been envied by every

woman in the village. Later, despite the unheard-of advantages of her

position, she had not been so much looked up to, for the reason that

she was childless. But, just now, her star was again in the ascendant,

since, in the winter, she was to present Gokarna’s house with a

much-prayed-for heir.

In spite of the fact that she was to have what she herself had most

longed for, Kota, as she had just explained to her sister, was not

happy. Her mind was in an abnormal state; and was seriously affected

by the slightest incident. Highly imaginative, like all her race, she

had always been more or less given to visions and presentiments; though

never so much as now. She would sit for hours motionless, wrapped in

unhappy dreams, or, as the result of some slight accident, a prey to

the keenest forebodings of evil. These things she did not often confide

to her husband. Nor did she see enough of the members of her own family

to get much comfort from them. Thus the naturally morbid state of

her mind was fostered and increased by her loneliness and her secret

broodings, till her nights were filled with terror, and her days were

of the length of years.

The hot months passed slowly; and when, after the early harvest, the

fall monsoon came on, Kota grew more than ever listless and unhappy.

Her time was now much occupied, however, with religious ceremonial;

and, in this respect, probably no woman was ever better cared for than

Kota. The _Simontonnayana_ was made the occasion of a special

festival, which was attended by the whole village. According to the

commands of the Vedic ritual, the mother was magnificently dressed,

and adorned with gold and jewels. Gokarna sacrificed a bull to Indra,

the flesh of which, after an offering to the gods, was partaken by

everybody. Then the ceremony of the parting of the hair was performed,

and texts were chanted by all the Brahmans. Only one event marred the

general gayety of the night. At the end of the prescribed ceremony, and

before the beginning of the feast, Gokarna, following custom, bade his

wife sing the merry festival song: “Taza ba Taza”. Kota, who had sat

silent and solemn through the entire ceremony, looked up at her husband

pleadingly, then opened her lips, uttered the first words of the song

in a hoarse and trembling tone, and suddenly burst into a torrent of

tears that no entreaty of her friends nor stern command of her husband

could still. This incident was considered an evil omen; but, in the

subsequent feast and merrymaking, it was quickly forgotten by all save

the poor little mother herself.

After this, Kota did not appear again in public. Indeed, for the next

two moons she spent her time almost wholly on her bed, attended by

Jensa, and sometimes by Hilka, till, at length, January came. In the

last days, Gokarna suddenly became attentive, nay, almost tender, to

his wife. He was by nature neither demonstrative nor affectionate.

But the matter of his child touched the dominating note of his

nature:—pride. And he could not but be interested in the person who

had power to present him with sons to whom he could hand down his

state and dignity. Gokarna was inordinately anxious for a son. Though

his dispassionate nature rebelled bitterly at the thought, he was

determined that, should this child prove to be a girl, he would take

another wife. Meantime, however, Kota was the object of his highest

interest; and not a little was she astonished when he left the

conducting of the full-moon sacrifices to an under-priest, that he

might stay beside her. He wished to talk with her of the child. But

Kota’s three years of wedded life had not prepared her to confide her

secret thoughts to her husband, and he got surprisingly little from her

on the subject nearest both of them. His conclusion was that she was

like all women:—too stupid to think. But had Kota chosen, she could

have disclosed to him a little wonder-world of motherhood that would

have opened his eyes anew to womankind. Melancholy she had been. Now

she was full of dread. Nevertheless, the sacred love was in her; and,

in her brighter hours, she had given her child all the tenderness of

hope, all the ambitions and desires for its welfare, that her stunted

womanhood could conjure up. For the first years of its life, at least,

the baby would be her own to love and to rule. Her heart would have

something to cling to. The dry dust of her existence was about to

put forth flowers and foliage at last. But of such thoughts, and the

joy in them, she could tell Gokarna nothing, as he sat beside her

mat-bed in mid-January of that year 1207. He could only make ceaseless

inquiries as to her welfare; and, toward nightfall, he was rewarded

by her suddenly sitting up, and crying to him to send at once for the

low-caste nurse who was to attend her in the coming hours.

These hours were terrible enough, even to the emotionless Gokarna.

Religion forbade his remaining with his wife, or allowing any but the

woman of special caste to behold her. All he could do was to sit in the

room next to that in which she lay, kindle a sacrificial fire, repeat

over it certain prescribed Vedic texts, and listen anxiously to the

sounds issuing from the neighboring room. This lasted an unconscionable

time. Then, when the night was at its most solemn ebb, the moaning and

sobbing suddenly ceased, and silence fell on the priest’s house. This

stillness was far more terrible than the noise had been. Gokarna’s

unemotional nature was stirred to its very depths. Should he brave the

Vedas—and go to her? While he waited, straining his ears, a new sound

came:—a faint, baby wail that pierced the heart of the man and caused

him to start joyously to his feet. A moment later the hanging before

the doorway was pushed aside, and the nurse appeared, holding in her

arms the child, wrapped in a piece of cotton cloth. For a second,

Gokarna stood still, choking with hope. Then he ran forward, and put

his hands on the tiny form:

“Is it—is it a boy? Speak!” he said.

The nurse answered not a word, but laid the child in his arms.

* * * * *

Not until noon the next day did Gokarna enter the room where his wife

lay. Kota, on the bed, with the baby beside her, started up as he

entered. But the words on her lips were stopped by his look.

“In the name of the gods, Kota, I give greeting to thee—and to my son.

My son,” he repeated, slowly, his eyes fixed upon the face of his wife,

whose frightened expression did not diminish. “And thou,” he continued,

turning to the nurse who stood at hand, listening intently, “see that,

on penalty of banishment, thou prate to none concerning the matters of

this house. I am now come to perform the ceremony of the breathing and

the secret name. Therefore depart, woman, from the room, nor return

until I summon thee.”

The nurse, alarmed at his tone, made a hasty exit; and Gokarna turned

again to his wife. Nor did he say another word on the subject nearest

both their hearts. Immediately he took the child from its mother’s

arms, at which it protested, with lusty voice, Kota watching it the

while with tenderest mother-eyes. Gokarna, holding the child up before

him, breathed three times upon it, and murmured: “Draw in thy breath

with the _Rik_, breathe within the _Yagus_, breathe forth

with the _Saman_.”

Then, handing the babe for a moment back to its mother, he left the

room, shortly returning with the articles of daily sacrifice:—honey,

melted butter, and barley mixed together in a small earthen dish, in

which stood also a spoon of beaten silver. Placing these on the floor

beside the bed, he seated himself, took the child again, and looked up

to Kota. “The name,” he said. “Find thou the omen for our name for him.”

Kota stirred uneasily. “Hark!” she said, listening, “what do they sing

there without:—what song?”

Somewhere in the village a chant was sounding, the words as yet

indistinct, but becoming gradually louder, till a little procession

passed Gokarna’s house, uttering these words, over their heavy and

sorrowful burden:

“Call on Rama! Call to Rama!

Oh, my Brothers, call on Rama!

For this dead

Whom we bring,

Call aloud to mighty Rama!”

“Rama!” echoed Kota, tremulously. “God of death!—Alas! Alas! That is

the omen.”

“It is surely an evil omen that a funeral should pass the house of

the new-born. Yet Rama is a god. He must be honored. Let the secret

name of the child be ‘Ramasarman.’ There are the four, holy Brahmanic

syllables. ‘Ramasarman.’ Say it with me, Kota.”

And the mother, with tears in her eyes and in her voice, repeated with

her husband the words that gave her first-born a secret name of death.

And when this ceremony was over, receiving the baby once more into

her arms, she wept over it, quietly and persistently, throughout the

afternoon.